


Star Trek: On Dangerous Ground

by robotsarcasm



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dominion War, Expanded Universe, Gen, Original Character(s), Side Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotsarcasm/pseuds/robotsarcasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew of the Federation starship USS Hornet struggle with demons both internal and external as they are dragged onto the front lines of the Dominion War.</p><p>(<a href="http://8tracks.com/thatbloodyrobot/star-trek-on-dangerous-ground">soundtrack can be found here</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You see, Steve, space is _big_. And we aren’t. Just look at it, you know? It’s so big and quiet and daunting. We’re all alone out here.”

“Meow?”

“Well, not _alone_ alone, no.”

“Meow.”

“You’re just never going to be impressed by this like I am, are you?”

With a sigh, Commander Llewelyn Seabrook sat back in the captain’s chair, giving up his attempt to have a meaningful existential conversation with his cat in favor of once again silently staring at the main viewscreen of the USS _Hornet_. It was late in the delta shift watch - a quick glance at the chronometer below the main viewscreen showed that it was in fact 0532 hours, shipboard time - and Seabrook was, as usual, beginning to regret his “happily volunteering” to take delta shift on the bridge by himself. “Happily volunteering,” in this case, meant that Captain O'Clare had caught him accidentally napping in her ready room during his regular beta shift the week before and had “suggested” that he take the delta shift watch on his own for the next week.

 _The new captain_ , he thought to himself for at least the third time that night, _is definitely a hard-ass sometimes. Although she’s been here for six months, so I guess she isn’t really new any more._

With a muffled thump, Seabrook’s cat leapt down from his lap and curled up underneath the chair, swiftly starting up a rumbling purr that almost managed to harmonize with the nearly inaudible hum of the ship’s warp drive. Steve was a fairly unremarkable cat in most regards - on the large end of the scale for a housecat, perhaps, and a fairly striking shade of orange, but otherwise just a normal cat. Seabrook had been told several times that people always expected a Starfleet officer with over ten years of deep-space exploration under their belt to have a more exotic pet. He tended to point out that after the weird things he’d seen after over ten years of deep-space exploration, it was nice to come home to the kind of familiar and predictable animal that he had grown up with.

It wasn’t that Seabrook had no sense of adventure. He loved adventure. He just also loved being able to put his feet up at the end of the day and read a book with a perfectly normal Terran cat in his lap. His second cousin T’Asa (who was half-Vulcan on her father’s side) had somehow managed to get permission from her CO to keep a _sehlat_ cub in her cabin. Seabrook had always wondered how she managed to keep the thing from chewing her leg off. He’d had a hard enough time just convincing Captain O’Clare to let the cat keep him company on the bridge.

“Computer, begin log entry.” _Might as well kill a few minutes with paperwork._ There was a chime as the computer began recording. “First Officer’s log, stardate 50975.02. Delta shift has been even less eventful than it was last night, and I didn’t even know that was possible. I think Steve is mad at me for making him stay up here with me and not letting him sleep on my bed while I’m gone, but seeing as how he gets to do that for the rest of the day, I think he just needs to get over himself.”

“Meow.”

“Shut up, Steve, you’re a cat and therefore I outrank you. Computer, end log entry and tell me estimated time to destination.”

“At current speed, time to outpost Gamma 7 is three hours, seventeen minutes.”

Seabrook sighed again. Alpha shift would be relieving him in just under two and a half hours, meaning that he couldn’t even count on the brief stopover at Gamma 7 to update their local star charts to relieve the monotony of his midnight exile. Pulling a toy mouse of the pocket of his uniform skant that was designed to carry a hand phaser, he reached under his chair in hopes of eliciting more entertainment out of Steve. But just as he had gotten the cat’s attention, the computer chimed again and the viewscreen shifted from the star-lines of warp speed to the Starfleet chevron - specifically, to the logo of Starfleet Command.

“Incoming Priority One transmission from Starfleet Command,” the computer said, lacking any of the unease that a flesh-and-blood crewmember might put into that same phrase when acknowledging an urgent communication from headquarters in the middle of the night. “Establishing connection.”

In a blink, the emblem of Starfleet Command was replaced by the stoney face of Admiral Alynna Nechayev. Steve chose that moment to sink his claws into Seabrook’s hand instead of the toy mouse, forcing him to squeak in a most undignified manner instead of properly greeting the admiral.

“Commander Seabrook. Am I interrupting something?” Nechayev seemed even more humorless than usual. Her short, white-blonde hair was tousled and her eyes were puffy with exhaustion.

 _She calls us personally in the middle of the night. This cannot be good._ “Uh, no, Admiral,” Seabrook said, pulling his hand out from under the chair and trying not to wince as Steve gave him another scratch for daring to take away his plaything. “What can I do for you?”

“Put me through on a secure channel to Captain O'Clare right away, Commander. I’ll let her explain.”

“Yes ma’am! Just a moment.” With a quick touch of the keypad in the arm of his chair, Seabrook put the admiral on hold. Then, biting his lip, he tapped his combadge. “Seabrook to Captain O'Clare.”

The captain’s response didn’t take as long as Seabrook thought it might, given that he was waking her up more than an hour before her alarm usually went off. “This is the captain. Seabrook, if you’re waking me up this early, the ship had better be on fire.”

“Sorry, Captain. But Admiral Nechaeyv wants to speak with you immediately. She’s on an encrypted real-time channel from Command, and I don’t think she’s calling with good news.”

There was a pause, during which Seabrook could almost hear the captain’s gut clench. “Put her through to my quarters. And wake up the senior staff. I want a department heads meeting in the observation lounge in twenty minutes.”

“Got it. Seabrook out.” He ended the channel to the captain, routed the admiral’s signal through to O'Clare’s office terminal, and spent the next ten minutes trying to get the attention of the rest of the senior staff, most of whom were far better sleepers than the captain was. After finally convincing the last of them - Gren, the Tellarite chief engineer - that a Priority One transmission from Starfleet Command _was_ a good reason to have a staff meeting in the middle of the night, he looked under his chair at Steve, who had curled up and gone back to sleep.

“Next time I start complaining about boredom in the middle of the night, buddy, do me a favor and scratch me in the eye or start a warp core breach or something, alright? Because I feel like either of those would be preferable to whatever the admiral is about to drop on our heads.”


	2. Chapter 2

The conference room of the USS _Hornet_ was by no means small, especially compared to the ones on her older _Renaissance_ -class sister ships. And it was significantly larger than its counterpart on the older _Miranda_ -class USS _Galahad_ , the last ship that Seabrook had served on. With the entire command staff assembled (even grumpy old Gren had shuffled his bulk in just before the captain’s twenty-minute deadline), there were still a half-dozen empty chairs around the long table that dominated the room. _So why does it feel so cramped in here this morning?_ Seabrook thought to himself, settling back into his chair and idly scratching Steve behind the ears. There hadn’t been time to run back to his quarters to put the cat away, but this wasn’t the first time he had brought his furry friend to a staff meeting, and the captain had never objected before - although there had been an awkward conversation afterward with Ruul, the remarkably paranoid Caitian tactical officer, about whether Seabrook was trying to make a statement of either anthropocentric superiority or even something kinkier. _Suspicion may help her in her job, but it definitely has left us with a strange working relationship._

At 0555 exactly, Captain O’Clare stormed in, and immediately Seabrook knew that his suspicions about the admiral’s bad news had at best been understated. What little conversation there had been - most of the command staff sat bleary-eyed, holding mugs of their preferred morning stimulants - came to a sudden halt. O’Clare wasn’t a tall woman, but her usual bearing was strong and open. She was forthright and forceful, and carried herself with a no-nonsense stride that spoke of a confidence that belied her 28 years and relative lack of command experience. Today, however, there were cracks in the confident facade; subtle cracks to be sure, but to Seabrook’s eye the captain’s neck muscles were so corded with tension she almost resembled a Cardassian.

Coming to a stop at the head of the table, O’Clare cast her gaze across the assembled officers. “Sorry to have Seabrook call you all here so early, but I’ve just received news from Starfleet Command that can’t wait.” She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “Deep Space 9 has just fallen to a massive assault from the Dominion and their Cardassian allies. As of last night, the Federation is officially in a state of war.”

Chaos broke out. Seabrook wasn’t sure who was shouting the loudest - Ruul’s exclamations of shock seemed to be neck-and-neck with Gren’s blusters of outrage - but he could see that every member of the command staff was just as surprised as he was. Even Sotek, the Vulcan science officer, had gone pale, which for Vulcans was about the equivalent of sitting there slack-jawed.

“Those sneaky spoon-headed bastards! We should neverrrrr have trrrrusted them!” Ruul snarled.

“I knew this was coming! Ever since we started going through that damned wormhole, I knew it wasn’t going to end well!” Gren seemed to think that the more he pointed out that he had seen this coming, the better off the Federation would be.

“What does this mean for us? We aren’t a combat vessel! I’ve never served on a line ship!” That was from Tykia Zonn, the high-strung Bolian operations officer.

With each outburst from one of the officers, Seabrook saw O’Clare grow more and more tense. He wasn’t a trained ship’s counselor, but he was the closest thing to it the _Hornet_ had had for more than a year, and he took his duties as first officer seriously. He knew how to look for the subtle signs of stress in a crewmember, even one like the captain, who had held herself apart for the six months she’d been in command. Her knuckles had gone white from how tightly she was clenching her fists, and she still stood almost motionless, with her eyes closed.

“We can’t fight the Dominion! I heard they’re led by shape-shifters. They could be anyone!” Sumayya El-Amin, the chief flight controller and most recent addition to the command staff, had begun looking at her fellow crew members like they were about to attack her.

Seabrook frowned. The only people that hadn’t responded were himself, O’Clare, and the ship’s doctor, Astrid Rodgers. Rodgers had come onboard at the same time as the captain, and they seemed to have some shared history that neither really wanted to talk about. The doctor was sitting at the far end of the table, her eyes locked in a thousand-yard stare out the viewports that lined the aft wall of the conference room. Glancing back at the captain, he saw she was visibly shaking now, although the rest of the gathered officers seemed too busy shouting at each other to have noticed.

With a roll of his eyes towards whatever hopefully benevolent gods of space might be watching, Seabrook stuck two fingers of his right hand in his mouth and whistled as loudly as he could. The shrill tone cut through the escalating argument (and also sent Steve bounding out of his lap to hide behind the potted fern in the far corner) and drew the frightened eyes of everyone in the room towards him. He stood up, trying to put as much confidence in his posture and voice as he could muster, no matter how much he wanted to call for a site-to-site transport back to his quarters. “Ladies and gentlemen, _shut the hell up_. You are Starfleet officers in a time of war, not a bunch of bickering midshipmen being told their final astrogation exam won’t be graded on a curve. Let the Captain finish the briefing or I swear to the Great Bird of the Galaxy that I am going to drag the next person who speaks out of turn down to the mess hall and assign them KP duty for the rest of the _decade_. And I will _personally_ ensure that the menu for that period of time includes so many potato dishes that you will be more afraid of vegetable peelers than you are of the Borg. Is that understood?”

There was a surprisingly prompt chorus of “yes sir”s from around the table. Seabrook looked over to O’Clare, who had finally opened her eyes and was looking back at him with a mix of gratitude and tension on her face. “All yours, ma’am.” He sat back down, glancing to see that Steve was still hiding behind the fern, giving him a look that was at least twice as perturbed as the captain’s.

O’Clare cleared her throat. “Thank you, Commander. As I was saying, the Dominion has struck at Deep Space 9, forcing the Starfleet contingent there to fall back under cover from our Klingon allies.” Turning around, she activated the display monitor on the wall behind her, and a tactical diagram of the border between Federation and Cardassian space appeared. “The main body of the fleet is assembling at Starbase 375 to divide into various task forces. The Dominion has taken the initiative, but we’re hoping that between our listening posts along the Cardassian DMZ and early-warning capabilities provided by cloaked Klingon patrols, we will be able to counter whatever the enemy plans to throw at us next.”

El-Amin raised her hand hesitantly. “Captain, are we joining the rest of the fleet at the rendezvous point?”

“No, Lieutenant.” O’Clare shook her head. “It is the opinion of Admiral Nechayev that the _Hornet_ will better serve as a reserve unit. We have been ordered to Starbase 47 to relieve the _Bonhomme Richard_ so that they can join the task force. Our mission will be to aid in local system defense and stand ready for rapid redeployment.”

Gren looked like he was about to open his mouth, and Seabrook readied himself to give the Tellarite a proper tongue-lashing, but O’Clare didn’t give the obstinate engineer a chance to get started. “Lieutenant El-Amin, I want us en route to Starbase 47 in the next twenty minutes. Keep us at least ten light-years away from the Cardassian border at all times. Gren, give me every watt of power you can scrounge from the warp engines. Ruul, sound general quarters and go to red alert immediately. Sotek, I want constant sensor sweeps - we don’t want to get caught with our pants down this far away from home. Dismissed!”

No one moved until Seabrook clapped his hands together. “You heard the captain! Get your asses in gear, people!” With that, the command staff all but leapt up from their seats and hustled out of the conference room, leaving Seabrook, Rodgers, and O’Clare behind. The captain looked at the doctor, who still remained motionless and distant in her seat. When O’Clare spoke next, her voice seemed to almost drip with all the exhaustion and worry she had held at bay when addressing the rest of the senior staff. “Astrid, I need to speak with you in my ready room.”

As the captain and the doctor turned to leave, Seabrook spoke up. “Captain? Are you alright?”

She didn’t look at him, but she stopped before going through the conference room door. Her voice was quiet and painfully cold. “I’m fine, Commander. See to your duties. And secure your pet. The bridge of a warship is no place for a cat.”

The door hissed shut behind her, leaving Seabrook to puzzle over just how much venom O’Clare had packed into the word “warship.” He managed to pry Steve out from behind the fern, gaining another scratch on the hand for his troubles, and started towards his quarters. The cat whined in frustration, and Seabrook did his best to soothe him.

“I know, buddy. But she’s right. The last thing we need is for you to be underfoot while we’re getting shot at.”

“Meow?”

“I still outrank you. Which means she outranks you, too.”

“Meow.”

“Yeah, you said it. We’re in trouble.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Helm, status report.”

Something about Captain O’Clare’s voice was especially sharp, Seabrook thought, as for what felt like the tenth time in the past hour she practically demanded an update on the ship’s progress towards Starbase 47. Ensign William Langat, the who had the bad luck to be the flight controller for this shift, tapped at his console and then turned his head over his shoulder to respond as he had to every other request for a status report over the past seven hours.

“Engines holding steady at warp 9, Captain. At current speed and course, our ETA at Starbase 47 is nine days, fourteen and a half hours.”

O’Clare’s response, as it had been every other time, was a noncommittal grunt, and she turned her attention to the status display in the arm of her command chair. Seabrook settled back into his own chair and glanced around the _Hornet_ ’s small bridge, seeing the tension in Langat’s face as he returned his own attention to his helm console, and seeing similar signs of strain in the rest of the bridge personnel. The _Hornet_ had been hurtling through space at warp 9 for almost two weeks now, and the stress of traveling through an active war zone combined with O’Clare’s constant pressure to get every millicochrane of speed out of the warp engines was definitely starting to wear on both the crew and the ship.

Without any warning, O’Clare stood up and started walking back to the aft starboard bulkhead, where the door to her ready room was nestled. “Commander Seabrook, you have the conn,” she muttered almost nonchalantly, and she slipped through the door without even glancing back to see if Seabrook had noticed her departure. He had, of course. Just as he had noticed it every day for the past week.

Seabrook was already getting very tired of whatever was causing O’Clare to be so brusque with him and the rest of the crew, and in that moment, he decided that perhaps it was time to actually do something about it. He stood up from his own chair and announced to the bridge crew, “I have the conn.” Then he looked around and caught the eye of Tykia Zonn, who was standing awkwardly at the portside operations station. “And now, Lieutenant Zonn, the chair is yours.” The Bolian flinched at the sound of his name, and his blue skin flushed a deeper shade of cerulean, but he gamely stepped forward and took a seat in the captain’s chair as Seabrook stalked off in the direction of O’Clare’s ready room.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t tap the entry chime. He just strode in, doing his best to keep his frustration in check but also noticing in a detached sort of way that he couldn’t relax his left hand, which had clenched into what felt like some sort of permanent fist.

O’Clare had barely decorated the _Hornet_ ’s ready room when she had taken command six months ago. The lighting was at a fairly low level, barely more than the ambient glow that came from the stars outside. The ubiquitous Starfleet potted plant sat in the far corner, alongside the sofa that stretched underneath the portholes; there were no pictures or paintings hanging on the bulkheads. The only personal touch the captain seemed to have bothered with was a framed holograph that usually sat on her desk, but which was at the moment held almost forgotten in one hand as she stood before the portholes, gazing out on the stars streaking past. She snapped around as he entered, her hazel eyes flashing with anger at the sudden intrusion. “Commander, I assume you have a good reason for intruding on my privacy?” Her voice was cold and hard.

Seabrook could almost feel the captain’s tension coming off of her like energy pulses off a neutron star. He could see the lack of sleep in her sunken cheeks, the sloppy bun she had pulled her hair into not twenty minutes ago that was already falling into a tangled mess, the intermittent tic at the corner of her left eye. In that moment, as he saw just how fragile of a state she was in, his own frustration faded away and left behind only concern. The passive-aggressive quips he had been about to lash out with died on his tongue, and instead he stood at almost parade-ground attention and said, “Captain, permission to speak freely?”

There was a moment’s silence, and Seabrook could tell that O’Clare was conflicted about whether or not to just throw him out on his ass. Thankfully, she nodded to him, and strode back towards her desk. “Make it quick, mister.”

“With all due respect, what’s going on, ma’am? Is there something you aren’t telling me? Ever since Admiral Nechayev gave us our marching orders, you’ve been edgier than a destitute Ferengi.”

Sitting down and setting the holoframe back on her desk, O’Clare fixed him with a gimlet-eyed stare. “I gave you permission to speak freely, Commander, not to be rude. I conveyed the entirety of Admiral Nechaeyv’s orders to the senior staff at the briefing the morning we received our orders from Starfleet Command.”

Seabrook shrugged. “That’s as may be, but then what’s wrong? For two weeks now you’ve been curt with the crew when you’re on duty and downright invisible in your off hours. I’ve come to understand over the past few months that you take a fairly hands-off approach with the crew, and I can respect that, but this has been a marked difference, even for you. Far be it for me to criticize your command style -”

O’Clare cut him off. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t let her stop him, not now that he was building up momentum. “- but it’s making the crew nervous. Edgy. People are concerned, and the rumor mill is working overtime that we’re going to be sent on some black ops mission or that Changelings replaced the admiralty or any number of other ridiculous things. I know you haven’t been on board the _Hornet_ long enough to get a feel for the crew, but that’s part of the problem! They don’t know you, and they’re afraid. We dropped a bomb on them, and we’re rushing off to a war zone - even if it is the rear line - and they don’t know how to handle it. And their captain isn’t leading them. I know this is your first command, ma’am, and please don’t take this as criticism, but I would be remiss in my duties as your first officer if I didn’t point out that right now, this ship and her crew need to see you be confident. They need you -”

She didn’t interrupt him with words that time. Instead, she slammed the holoframe face-down on her desk and stood up, her snarl colored by what sounded like an Irish accent. “One more word, Seabrook, and I’ll have ye in the brig for insubordination!”

Seabrook didn’t push his luck. He stood there silently, meeting her eyes, and for a second he could have sworn she was on the verge of tears. A detached part of his mind wondered where the accent had come from - he knew she had been born on Earth, but at the moment that was all he could remember from her personnel file.

O’Clare sat back down in her seat and turned away from him, all emotion - and any trace of the accent - gone from her voice. “You’re dismissed. Contact me if our situation changes or if Engineer Gren reports in on the possibility of getting any more speed out of the warp engines.”

“Yes ma’am.” He turned to leave the ready room, but couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder. He saw her in profile, and this time he was sure he saw tears glinting on her cheeks in the starlight. “Captain,” he said softly, “I just want to help.”

“That will be all, Commander,” she said in a monotone that left him more unsettled than her outburst had.

He walked out of the ready room, determined to figure out a little more about his captain and what seemed to be an entire bulk freighter’s worth of emotional baggage she had brought onboard. It was time to do a little digging.


	4. Chapter 4

Seabrook walked back to the desk in his quarters, a steaming mug of _raktajino_ in one hand, and did his best to not trip over Steve as the cat did his best impression of a living tripwire. _Even with all the extra space in these quarters compared to the ones on our last ship_ , he thought, _the stupid cat always manages to be underfoot_. He brushed a stray clump of cat hair off his chair and sat down. Steve had come into his life rather unexpectedly almost eight and a half years ago, when Seabrook was still a lieutenant serving aboard the USS _Galahad_ \- one of the more motley ships in Starfleet, and a fairly eye-opening experience for a young man only three years out of the Academy. The ship had stopped over at Proxima Centauri for some unexpected maintenance, and Seabrook had found himself dragooned into joining the ship’s bowling team for a match against one of the colony’s own bowling teams. After a particularly heated match, both teams had wandered off to a bar to celebrate a record-breaking low score on the part of the _Galahad_ crew, and it was after stumbling out of that bar that Seabrook had literally tripped over a scrawny stray kitten that had apparently been living in the dumpster out back. He had taken an instant liking to the pathetic little orange puffball and smuggled it back onto the ship, thankful that as a junior officer he had rated his own quarters (even if they were microscopic), and by the time they were underway again he had managed to convince Captain Trask to let him keep it.

Without even a by-your-leave, Steve jumped up onto his lap and, with a vigorously affectionate headbutt to the hand holding the _raktajino_ mug, soaked Seabrook’s uniform with the pungent Klingon coffee. “Stupid cat!” he yelped, quickly setting the mug down and standing up, but it was no use - the uniform was soaked and the hot beverage had already scalded him. Steve, oblivious to the discomfort he had caused, jumped onto the desk and began licking up the _raktajino_ that had splashed there. Grumbling, Seabrook began to strip off his uniform as he stalked off to the sonic shower, wadding his skant up and tossing it vaguely in the direction of the replicator so that he could replace it later.

Showering the coffee off took only a minute, and as he got out and started getting dressed again, he realized he could only procrastinate so long. _I have to admit that digging into the Captain’s past makes me uncomfortable, but dammit, she’s got a chip on her shoulder bigger than a Borg cube._ He got back to the desk to find that what was left of the _raktajino_ had not only gone cold, but also had specks of what could only be feline backwash floating on the top. With another sigh - he felt like he had spent most of the day sighing - he carried the mug back to the replicator and got a fresh drink. _Great Bird of the Galaxy, all I ask is that you keep my cat from getting a caffeine addiction anywhere near as bad as my own. He’s already a terrible morning person._

Once more, Seabrook turned from the replicator and headed back to his desk, this time keeping a wary eye on Steve, who was following close at his heels, likely hoping for another chance to get some _raktajino_. He sat the mug down first this time, then plopped down in the chair. Steve jumped into his lap again, but this time Seabrook kept him from dousing them both in Klingon coffee by distracting him with a vigorous bout of scratching behind the ears.

 _Alright, I can’t put this off any longer_. He cleared his throat. “Computer, access ship’s roster.”

“Accessing,” his desk terminal replied.

“Display full service record for Captain Elizabeth O’Clare.”

“That record contains classified information. Service records of command personnel require command-level authorization to access.”

“Stupid wartime security procedures. This is Commander Llewelyn Seabrook, authorization code Kappa Alpha Theta Steve.”

“Authorization accepted. Some portions of this record are classified above your security clearance and that information may be redacted.”

He stopped petting his cat and blinked at that last part. _Had O’Clare been involved in some kind of Starfleet Intelligence black ops? Is that how she made captain so quickly?_ “That’s fine, computer. Read me the highlights.”

“O’Clare, Elizabeth Margaret. Born stardate 22494.9 in Kildare, Ireland, Earth. Entered Starfleet Academy on stardate 39704.0. Graduated Starfleet Academy with the rank of Ensign on stardate 42452.1; training focus was small-unit and starship tactics. First posting was the USS _Berlin_ , NCC-14232, as gamma-shift security chief. Transferred to the USS _Crazy Horse_ , NCC-50446, on stardate 45195.7, with promotion to Lieutenant, Junior Grade, and assigned as beta-shift security chief. Promoted to Lieutenant on stardate 46774.3 and awarded a commendation for valorous service. Reassigned as beta-shift tactical officer on stardate 46780.2. Transferred to the USS _Trieste_ , NCC-37124, on stardate 47846.5, with promotion to Lieutenant Commander, and assigned as chief tactical officer. Placed on administrative leave on stardate 50043.6. Awarded the Starfleet Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry and promoted to Captain on stardate 50436.9. Given command of USS _Hornet_ , NCC-45231, on stardate 50437.2.”

Seabrook sipped at his _raktajino_. “Computer, did she request a transfer off of the _Trieste_?”

“Negative; the _Trieste_ was destroyed on stardate 50000.4.”

He frowned. “What destroyed the _Trieste_?”

“That information is classified.”

His frown deepened. “How many other crewmembers survived the ship’s destruction?”

“That information is classified.”

“Was her receipt of the Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry in any way related to the circumstances around the _Trieste_ 's destruction?”

“That information is classified.”

“That’s really helpful, you know?”

“Command unclear. Please restate.”

Seabrook glanced down at Steve, who had fallen asleep in a particularly undignified pose. “Never mind, computer.” A thought struck him then: at the end of the senior staff meeting, O’Clare had addressed Dr. Rodgers by her first name, which she had never done for any of the other crewmembers, at least as far as Seabrook had noticed. “Computer, has Captain O’Clare ever served with Dr. Astrid Rodgers?”

“Negative; Elizabeth O’Clare and Astrid Rodgers have never served aboard a starship together.”

“Damn.”

“However,” the computer continued, “O’Clare and Rodgers’ terms at the academy overlapped by a period of two years, and the two took several courses together, including Interspecies Ethics, Survival Strategies, and -”

“Stop,” Seabrook interrupted. _So the captain and the doctor knew each other back in the Academy, huh? Well, maybe the good doctor will help me unravel some more of this puzzle._ “Computer, what is the location of Dr. Rodgers?”

“Dr. Rodgers is in sickbay.”

He stroked Steve, who woke up at the sudden touch and in a flash turned around and sunk his teeth into the webbing of Seabrook’s left hand. “Ow! Well, thanks for giving me an excuse to go bug her, buddy.” Downing the last of his still-mostly-warm _raktajino_ , Seabrook stood up, brushed some cat hair off his uniform, and headed for sickbay.


	5. Chapter 5

The _Hornet_ , Seabrook mused as he made his way down to Deck Six, was a patchwork ship, compared to most Starfleet vessels, but from what he had gathered in his two years aboard, that wasn’t unusual for a _Renaissance_ -class cruiser. The keel of the _Hornet_ had been laid down over sixty years ago, and multiple refits over the years had tried to keep the ship up to date with varying degrees of success. As a result, depending on where you were on board, you might think you were aboard anything from an old-style _Miranda_ -class light cruiser, one of those workhorse _Ambassador_ s like the _Loma Prieta_ (which Seabrook’s cousin Matthew served on), or even a state-of-the-art _Intrepid_. It was this last that the shiny new sickbay had been based on, and as Seabrook stepped through the doorway, he wondered how many of the biobeds had actually seen any use. The sickbay module, along with the bridge module and some tactical equipment, had been installed six months ago, at the same layover that had brought Captain O’Clare and Dr. Rodgers aboard, and while Seabrook had gotten used to the new bridge’s layout, he still found himself impressed by how sleek all the new medical equipment looked.

Dr. Astrid Rodgers stepped out of her office from Seabrook’s left, barely even glancing away from the PADD in her hand. Her tone was no-nonsense but friendly, as it usually was when she was on duty. “Something I can help you with, Commander?”

He held up his left hand, showing the deep pinpricks that Steve had left, which were still welling up with blood. “Had a little disagreement with my furry friend,” he said sheepishly.

Rodgers finally made eye contact with him and cocked an eyebrow. _When she does that,_ he thought, _she and O’Clare almost look like sisters. It’s uncanny_. “And you came all the way down here for that? I’m fairly certain your cabin’s medkit has a dermal regenerator in it.”

_And she has a similar rapier wit to our beloved Captain. Lovely_. “I… uh, forgot about that?”

With an half-hearted snort, Rodgers slipped the PADD into one of the larger pockets of her lab coat, grabbed him gently by the wrist, and led him over to a biobed. “Sit down, this will only take a moment.” As he sat, she stepped over to the equipment rack in the middle of the room and grabbed a dermal regenerator, making a few quick adjustments to the device before picking up his hand again and waving it over the wound for a few seconds. There was a quick itchy sensation, and then the wound closed. She looked back up at him, pushing her short blonde hair away from her forehead, and her green eyes twinkled mischievously. “All better! Now, do you have any hangnails you want me to take care of while you’re here, or can I get back to what I actually get paid to do?”

“You’re the CMO, you get paid to treat injuries.”

“I also get paid to do medical research for Starfleet, which in this case means isolating the base pairs of these morphogenic enzymes in hopes of developing a tricorder algorithm for detecting Changelings. Also, we’re in Starfleet, so we don’t technically get ‘paid.’”

Seabrook stood up from the biobed and rubbed at the spot on his hand, which still tingled from the effects of the dermal regenerator. “I’m sorry for interrupting your research, Doctor.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Commander. It’s honestly alright - I was coming up against a wall anyway and was probably about to take a coffee break. Care to join me?”

He shook his head. “Actually, I’ve had enough coffee for the day. But if you have a second, I have to admit that I had a question I wanted to ask you before Steve sent me down here for first aid.”

“An ulterior motive? Why Commander, I never saw you as the type for that sort of skullduggery.”

“It’s more chicanery than skullduggery, I assure you,” he said with a grin. This was the longest conversation he’d had with Rodgers since she came aboard, but he was finding her to be quite fun to verbally spar with.

“In that case, come join me in my office. You may not need any more coffee, but if I go much longer without a mocha I’m going to scream.”

In the few steps it took them to enter her office, Seabrook studied the way that Rodgers moved, thinking back to his earlier comparison of the doctor and the captain. _I suppose they don’t look like sisters, but maybe cousins? Rodgers has a few centimeters on O’Clare, but O’Clare has a few more kilos of muscle. Still, they have the same hair color and they almost smile the same way. But even though Rodgers is the older by a few years, O’Clare looks older - it’s something around the eyes._

Rodgers gestured to the seat in front of her desk as she stepped over to the replicator slot in the wall. “Double mocha, whip, pinch of cinnamon,” she said, and the drink materialized a heartbeat later, contained in what was very obviously not standard Starfleet-pattern china. The cup was a small porcelain number, with tasteful gold scrollwork on the handle and a pattern of roses around the rim. Rodgers lifted the mug, took a small sip, and visibly relaxed. “Now,” she said while sitting down, “What did you want to ask me about?”

“Well now I have two questions, the quickest of which is why you went through the trouble to reprogram the replicators with a different china pattern.” Seabrook gestured at her cup. “Doesn’t that take a larger portion of your replicator rations?”

“It’s a cosmetic indulgence, I’ll admit,” the doctor said, taking another sip of her mocha. “But this was the pattern on the china at my grandmother’s house, where I grew up, and I’ve taken the replicator program with me ever since I joined Starfleet. It’s nice to have a little touch of home at hand when your work environment needs to be sterile and utilitarian.” She smiled. “Some people have pets that scratch them, I have custom china that cuts down on how often I get to indulge in other fripperies. But it’s a moot point, unless we wind up so far behind enemy lines that we have to actually start rationing replicator power.” She took a larger sip, this time winding up with a smear of whipped cream on her top lip. “Anyway,” she said, not seeming to notice, “what was your other question?”

“I’m not sure how to put this, so forgive me if this is a little blunt,” he hedged. “But I was wondering what your relationship with Captain O’Clare was.”

That seemed to catch her by surprise. She froze in her seat, cup halfway to her mouth, whipped cream still smeared across her upper lip. “That’s an odd question, Commander. And a rather personal one.”

Seabrook blushed. “I didn’t mean to imply anything! I’m not asking about that sort of thing. Unless it’s relevant. I just mean that, uh…” He stopped for a minute to try and rein in his embarrassment. “Ever since the Admiral contacted us a week and a half ago, O’Clare has been withdrawn. Sullen. Antisocial. Even more so than when she came onboard. The announcement of war with the Dominion has obviously rattled her, and I’m worried. I’m worried about her and I’m worried about this ship and this crew. So I did some digging and saw that the two of you were at the Academy together, and you both transferred aboard at the same time, and I wondered if you maybe knew something about the Captain that could help me help her in some way.”

Rodgers frowned, but seemed to have gotten over her shock. “I’m assuming you read the rest of her personnel file?”

“I tried to, but most of the more recent details are classified above my security clearance. I know that her last ship, the _Trieste_ , was destroyed last September, but I don’t know why. I know that O’Clare was placed on ‘administrative leave’ for six months, and then given a commendation and a promotion and this ship, but again, I don’t know why. It doesn’t make sense, and she doesn’t exactly seem inclined to open up to me about it.” He shrugged. “So I was hoping that you could tell me something. Anything.”

She was quiet for a moment, staring into her half-empty coffee cup. “I wish I could be of more help, Commander, but between your security clearance, doctor-patient confidentiality, and the fact that I don’t have the whole picture myself, the fact is that I can’t tell you much more than you already know.” She set the cup down and looked at him, her green eyes cold and sad. “Elizabeth and I were friends in the Academy, although I finished up a few years ahead of her. We stayed in touch for a while, but drifted apart as duty pulled us in different directions. I had lost contact with her right up until we were both assigned to the _Hornet_. I do know some of what she’s been through, and I don’t want to say your concerns are unfounded, but as it stands it is my opinion as ship’s doctor that this is none of your business.”

“But -” he tried to interject, but she kept going.

“If that opinion changes, I promise you will be the first person I notify. Elizabeth is my friend, yes, but I would be failing in my duties if I didn’t put the well-being of this ship and crew ahead of that.”

Seabrook couldn’t help but start to get mad at her stonewalling him like this. “As First Officer, I have the right to know if my captain’s mental state is a threat to this ship.”

She nodded, but her voice had turned to steel. “You do. But as CMO, I have the authority to tell you that it isn’t, and that you damn well have to take my word on it.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Seabrook stared into the wisps of steam rising from her coffee cup. “So it’s going to be like that?” he asked quietly.

“Commander,” she said, and then paused, seeming to search for the right words. “Llewelyn, I’m not trying to keep you out of the loop.” Her voice had softened and almost seemed pleading. “Please trust me when I say that right now, Elizabeth’s privacy is the important thing. But if and when that changes, you’ll know.”

Seabrook sighed and stood up to leave. “Alright, Doctor, I trust you. Thank you for your time and for listening to my concerns.”

“You’re welcome, Commander. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help for the moment.” He was fairly sure she did sound remorseful.

He ran a hand back through his hair and grinned at her sheepishly. “Call me Brook, Doctor. Never did like my first name, but if we’re both working this hard to look out for the _Hornet_ and her crew, we should at least be on more familiar terms.

She smiled and nodded at him. “Then call me Astrid, please.”

“You’ve got it, Astrid.” He snapped her a quick salute. “I’ll leave you to your morphogenic enzymes. Let me know if that pans out - it might come in handy.”

“I will,” she said, and turned back to her console as Seabrook strode out the door and headed back to his quarters.


	6. Chapter 6

“Commander,” Lieutenant El-Amin’s soft voice called across the ominously silent bridge of the _Hornet_ , “we’ll be arriving at Starbase 47 in two minutes.”

Seabrook glanced up from the display screen in the arm of the command chair and met the gaze of the diminutive flight controller. Her rich brown eyes were the only part of her that betrayed how exhausted she was; for the past week of their journey along the edge of the Cardassian Demilitarized Zone, the entire crew had been pulling double shifts, and as a result sleep had been a rare commodity among the senior bridge officers. Sumayya’s young face managed to hide the exhaustion well, but even she had begun to flag over the last few days. He smiled at her and hoped his own sleep deprivation hadn’t left his face looking too ghastly. “Glad to hear it, Lieutenant. Bring us out of warp at your discretion and bring us in for a standard parking orbit around the station.”

El-Amin nodded at him, her bangs bouncing from where they poked out beneath her regulation operations-gold _hijab_ , and she turned back to her console, her hands skimming across the controls as she directed the starship to bring its relativity-defying speeds under control.

Tapping his combadge and hoping that he might get more than a monosyllabic answer for once, Seabrook said, “Seabrook to Captain O’Clare. We’re about to drop out of warp and arrive at Starbase 47, ma’am. Would you care to join me on the bridge?” He looked over at the door to O’Clare’s ready room, where she had retreated at the beginning of the shift over seven hours ago. She had been spending less and less time around the crew, and Seabrook’s concerns had only increased since his frustratingly unhelpful conversation with Dr. Rodgers.

O’Clare’s response was, at least, not monosyllabic, but it wasn’t as enthusiastic as he had hoped for, either. “I’m sure you can handle this, Commander. If Admiral Zh’thilass wishes to speak to me, I’ll take her call in here.”

“Acknowledged, ma’am,” he replied, and closed the channel. “Lieutenant Ruul, if you’d be so kind, hail the starbase and let them know we’re reporting in.”

“Of course, sirrrr,” Ruul purred from the tactical console at the rear of the bridge. “Starbase 47 welcomes us, and they say that Rear Admiral Zh’thilass would like to speak with you and the Captain at yourrrr earliest convenience.”

Seabrook sighed. “Might as well get that out of the way then. Ruul, you have the bridge.” He stood, stretching his lower back - these twelve-hour days on the bridge were going to be the death of him, or at least his lumbar - and headed towards the ready room door.

This time he at least had the presence of mind to hit the door chime before he also triggered the hatch release and strode in. Once again, O’Clare stood staring out the viewports, and the blinking navigation lights of Starbase 47 slowly drifted into view as the _Hornet_ entered a parking orbit around the station. The captain glanced over her shoulder as he entered. “I assume the Admiral wants to have a word with me after all?”

“With the both of us, actually.” Seabrook walked over to the replicator by O’Clare’s desk. “Want a coffee before we open a channel to her? I don’t know about you, but I could use a pick-me-up before we get told that the whole war’s already gone to hell.”

For a second Seabrook worried that his attempt at gallows humor had fallen flat, but a ghost of a smirk quirked the corner of O’Clare’s lips. “No coffee, my nerves have been tense enough lately. Tarkalean tea, double sweet.” Seabrook smiled, pleased that the captain had managed to open up even that much, and requested her drink from the replicator, along with a triple mocha for himself. 

O’Clare sat down at her desk and Seabrook took the chair across from her. She tapped a control on her desk console and said, “Lieutenant Ruul, go ahead and open a secure channel to the Admiral and pipe it in here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Catian tactical officer’s voice came through the intercom. There was a chime from the wall display next to the desk, and the screen came to life, showing an image of the Starfleet chevron as the progress of the encryption protocol ran underneath. Then the still image was replaced with the stern, pale blue face of Rear Admiral Shrylat Zh’thilass, her antennae quivering with some kind of barely restrained emotion.

“Captain O’Clare,” the admiral barked, her voice a stentorian contralto. “Glad you could finally show up!”

“Admiral,” the captain nodded. “A pleasure as always. May I introduce my first officer, Commander Llewelyn Seabrook?”

“Ma’am,” Seabrook said. “We actually met a few years ago at a reception at Helaspont Station, right after I got my first posting on the _Wyoming_.”

The admiral’s antennae stood a little straighter and her eyes twinkled in recognition. “That’s right! The little soiree after the treaty with the Tzenkethi was signed. It’s good to see you again, Commander.” Her antennae drooped and her face darkened. “But to the matter at hand. I assume Admiral Nechayev briefed you, Captain?”

“Yes she did, Admiral,” O’Clare said. “We’re to serve as a system defense picket and supplement local sector defense in event of a Dominion incursion.”

Although Zh’thilass’ face didn’t change expression, her antennae drooped, and Seabrook found himself wondering if Andorians had any concept of a poker face. “Unfortunately, Captain, the situation has changed somewhat. I need you closer to the line, providing sensor coverage along the border near the Setlik system.”

O’Clare’s voice went cold. “It was my understanding that Admiral Nechayev believed the _Hornet_ would be of minimal use as a line vessel. _Renaissance_ -class ships are a little long in the tooth to be border patrol.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers on this stretch of the border, Captain,” the admiral said firmly. “We need every ship that isn’t on the verge of a warp core breach, and the _Hornet_ passed her last inspection tour with flying colors. We need you and your sensor package at Setlik, and we need you there as soon as possible. We’ll have a battle group riding backstop for you here, and if things get particularly hairy there will be reinforcements at Starbase 11 on standby, but we’ll be relying on you to serve as a mobile listening post.”

The captain’s eyes had narrowed, “With all due respect, Admiral, that’s not an optimal use of my ship. Surely there’s a _Nebula_ -class that can be freed up -”

Zh’thilass cut O’Clare off with a wave of her hand and a waggle of her antennae. “There isn’t. The majority of the fleet is gathering along the border near the Kalandra sector, in case the Dominion makes a push from Bajor. We’re pulling ships from every possible assignment across the Federation to make sure we don’t get caught with our pants down like we did at Deep Space 9, and that means that you’re all we have over here.”

Seabrook did his best to sound non-confrontational, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was. “Admiral, are we going to be the only patrol ship in the sector? I understand that we’re stretched thin, but if we’re going to be tangling with Dominion or Cardassian patrols, we’ll be pretty undergunned.” He saw O’Clare give him an inscrutable glance; he couldn’t tell if she was glad he was supporting her, or angry with him for butting in.

“You won’t have anyone on your wing, but you won’t be out there alone either,” the admiral replied. “While our assets in the area are tied up, we’ve negotiated a deal with the Klingons, and they’ll be sending us a squadron of Birds of Prey. They’ll be running silent along the border itself, supplementing your sensor sweeps and providing aid if any Jem’Hadar poke their heads out.”

Seabrook was pleased to hear they wouldn’t be alone, and he supposed that there could be worse allies than a squadron of Klingons. While the recent conflict between the Federation and the Empire had been short and brutal, and while some people still held ill will even after it had been revealed to be a Dominion plot, he had managed to avoid the worst of it, as the _Hornet_ had first been operating out of Deep Space 3 and then had been in drydock after a particularly unfortunate incident with an Alpha Omicron creature.

Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw O’Clare stiffen.

Zh’thilass continued on. “The Klingons will meet you at Setlik in four days. If you need to resupply, we can oblige you - and I would be honored if the two of you would join me for dinner tonight.”

O’Clare shook her head almost imperceptibly. Her voice sounded hollow now, lacking the cold fury from a moment before. “Our fuel and munitions are at acceptable levels, Admiral, but thank you. And I’m afraid we’ll have to take a rain check on that dinner offer - we’ll be making best speed for Setlik III immediately.”

The Andorian admiral frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Captain, but I understand. Duty calls and all that. Perhaps when you next pass this way? I will have the patrol schedule and information on the Klingon detachment sent your way, along with the latest encryption protocols. We’ll expect regular reports.”

“Of course,” the captain replied. “One thing more, Admiral - what did you say the name of the Klingon captain was?”

“I didn’t,” Zh’thilass replied. “But let me see.” She glanced away, likely at a PADD, and then turned her attention back to O’Clare. “The squadron is led by the IKS _Rok_. Her captain’s name is -”

It was O’Clare’s turn to interrupt the admiral. “Brota, of the House of Noggra.”

“Yes, that’s right.” The admiral looked surprised. “You know him?”

If before O’Clare had sounded hollow, now her voice was stripped bare of any possible inflection. “We’ve met.”

“Excellent!” The admiral seemed completely oblivious to the tone of O’Clare’s response. “Well, I’ll let you all get underway. Have your tactical officer ensure the encryption protocol is running correctly before you leave the system - we don’t want to risk subspace communications being jeopardized.”

O’Clare nodded, her eyes staring past the monitor with Zh’thilass’ face on it and off into Seabrook couldn’t even imagine what. Rather than interrupting her reverie, he nodded at the Admiral and continued on. “Of course, Admiral. Thanks again for the dinner invitation - we’ll take you up on it the next time we stop in to resupply. _Hornet_ out.” He reached out and hit the control to end the transmission, then looked at O’Clare. “Captain?” he asked hesitantly.

She looked back at him. “Have El-Amin set us a course for Setlik III. Best possible speed. I want to get there well ahead of our ‘allies.’” To Seabrook, the scare quotes around the word sounded like nails being hammered into a coffin lid.

“Yes, ma’am. Are you alright?” He tried not to let his concern into his voice, but he wasn’t sure if O’Clare was in a state to notice. She didn’t respond, and instead stood up from her desk, knocked back her now-cold tea in a long gulp, and headed for the door.

“Captain, are you alright?” he asked again.

Her voice was stronger now, and a hint of her Irish brogue had crept back into it. “I’ll be fine, Commander.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be on the holodeck. You have the bridge.”

She stormed out of the ready room and he had to almost jump out of his chair to catch up with her, his own forgotten mocha in his hand. As he stepped out onto the bridge, she was already vanishing behind the closing door of the starboard turbolift. The entire bridge crew turned their eyes to him. Taking a sip from his mocha, which had definitely gone cold, he did his best to walk with a sense of confidence and decorum down to the command chair, which Lieutenant Ruul quickly vacated. He nodded at her and sat down. “Lieutenant Ruul, verify that the new encryption protocol from Starbase 47 is active and send them a confirmation code. Lieutenant El-Amin, once that’s set, lay in a course for Setlik III, maximum warp. We’ve got a party to host and it wouldn’t look good if we were late.”

“A party?” El-Amin’s faint Arabic accent only served to heighten the incredulity in her voice.

“You heard me, Lieutenant.” He tried to sound confident, but it was hard. Seeing O’Clare so unnerved had in turn left him very, very nervous. “We’ll be throwing a party for any Dominion ships that come our way, and our Klingon neighbors are being nice enough to send us over a little help.”

“Encryption protocol is enabled, Commanderrrr,” mewed Ruul from the tactical station.

“Excellent. Lieutenant El-Amin, set course and engage.”

“Aye, sir.”

As the stars outside the _Hornet_ ’s viewscreen lengthened, Seabrook sipped at his mocha again and found it now just tasted like ash. He forced himself to drink the rest of it anyway. It was a day to Setlik at maximum warp, and he’d have time to sleep before then. For now, he settled in to look over the details that Admiral Zh’thilass had forwarded about Captain Brota and the IKS _Rok_ , and he hoped that somewhere in there he would find out just what about them had Captain O’Clare looking like she had seen a ghost.


	7. Interlude

The familiar feeling of tingly, tickling nothingness fades and she smiles as she sees the transporter room come into existence around her. She feels a flutter in her stomach as her body adjusts to the supposedly imperceptible differences in environment here compared to the ship she just transported from, and its mirrored by a moment of disorientation as she realizes that this transporter room looks different from the one she left. But that makes sense. The _Trieste_ , although far smaller, is a much newer ship than the _Crazy Horse_.

Her attention is drawn to the two men waiting for her. One is obviously Captain Piper - aside from the pips on his collar and his vivid crimson uniform, he has that air of confidence and charisma that only starship captains ever have. Her guess is that the man standing just behind him in a matching uniform with commander’s pips is the XO, Commander Graves. She snaps to attention. “Sir! Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth O’Clare, reporting for duty. Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted, Commander!” Piper returns her smile, the expression seeming so natural on his lined face, and extends his hand to her as she steps down from the transporter pad. His grip is as strong as his jawline, and she is reminded of her father, which she finds funny because she could never have seen her father as a starship captain, let alone as a Starfleet member in any capacity. “It’s a pleasure to have you join our crew. I’ve heard great things about you from both Captain Wu and Admiral Nechayev.”

“Thank you, sir. The pleasure’s mine, I assure you.” She tries to not wince at the admiral’s name. She’d had the dubious pleasure of being in charge of Nechayev’s security detail while the admiral had been on the _Crazy Horse_ during the recent Borg crisis, and while the admiral was many things, a pleasant conversationalist wasn’t one of them. And it's news to her that the admiral would have anything nice to say about anyone.

Over Piper’s shoulder, Graves clears his throat obviously, and Piper glances at him. “Oh of course! Where are my manners? Commander O’Clare, this is my first officer, Commander Graves.” Graves nods but doesn’t extend a hand to shake. He looks about as distant as Piper is warm, all sharp-edged mustache and shiny bald pate and no room for a smile. Piper keeps talking. “And I suppose we should get the paperwork out of the way, then? Computer!” There is a chime from the nearby intercom as the ship’s computer acknowledges that he has its attention. “Note in the ship’s log that as of stardate 47846 point…” He trails off and looks at Graves.

“Point five two, sir.” His voice is almost as clipped and precise as some Vulcans that she’s heard.

“Stardate 47846.52, Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth O’Clare has reported for duty and assumed her role as chief tactical officer.” He glances at her. “Do you prefer Elizabeth, or Liz? Or Beth?”

She shakes her head and can’t help but smile all the broader for his earnestness. “Elizabeth is fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course, of course. The _Trieste_ is a small ship, Elizabeth, we try not to stand too hard on protocol here. At least, most of us don’t.” He laughs and claps Graves on the shoulder, who seems to tolerate it with the air of someone who is far too used to such a gesture of familiarity and far too polite to ever mention how annoying they find it. “Anyway, I assume you’ll want to see your quarters and settle in? We have you slated to start your first duty shift tomorrow afternoon - can’t have you sleep-deprived on your first day, am I right?”

She shakes her head again. “Actually sir, ship’s time aboard the _Crazy Horse_ was set so that I just came out of my assigned rest period before beaming over. I’ll happily take my place with the alpha shift.” Out of the corner of her eye she sees Graves nod a millimeter in what she can’t help but hope is approval.

Piper laughs again. “Well, Ron, it looks like we have another go-getter on the crew! Careful, she’ll be after your job next!” Graves doesn’t react to this. She gets the feeling that the captain and the first officer have very different views on the nature of their relationship.

Piper’s combadge chirps and a nasal tenor voice drawls, “Captain Piper to the bridge. Captain Wu’s on the horn for you - she says she has something to tell you before the _Crazy Horse_ gets underway, and to remind you that they’re on a tight schedule.”

He taps it and responds. “Piper here, acknowledged, Williams. See you in a minute.” He looks at her one more time and smiles broadly. “Ron here will show you to your quarters. I look forward to seeing you on the bridge in the morning! Alpha shift starts at 0900. Welcome aboard again, Commander O’Clare!” Without waiting for another word from her, he hustles out of the transporter room.

Commander Graves looks her over. “If you’ll follow me, Commander, your quarters are up on Deck Three.” He turns on his heel and heads out, and she has to hustle to match his long strides.

He doesn’t attempt to engage her in conversation the entire way to her quarters. Although she does not mind this, once she is alone in her quarters and has the chance to breathe, she finds herself very curious at what life on the _Trieste_ \- and with Captain Piper’s obviously fast-and-loose command style - will be like. She thinks she’s going to like it here.


	8. Chapter 8

Captain Elizabeth O’Clare strode out of the holodeck feeling more alive than she had in months. Her _bat’leth_ hung heavy in her hand, every muscle in her body ached, and sweat had plastered stray wisps of hair to her forehead, but all of that exhaustion was nothing compared to how her blood sang in her veins. 

It wasn't as satisfying as the real thing would be, but it was better than just sitting around moping like she had for the past six months. Astrid had been haranguing her about needing to get out more anyway, and while O’Clare was pretty sure that she had meant socializing with actual living people and not holographic sparring partners, the good doctor would just have to take this in stride.

O'Clare managed to make it to the turbolift without running into any of the _Hornet_ ’s crew, which she appreciated, because when she reached out to tap the lift’s call button she saw a ten-centimeter gash along her left forearm. It didn't hurt - or rather, now that she saw the wound she could feel the pain as a distant, unimportant thing - but there was a fair amount of blood drying in an ugly smear all the way up to the back of her hand. Dissuading a curious or concerned crewmember from offering to help their obviously wounded captain would be difficult at best, and at worst would likely land her in Sickbay, with Astrid demanding to know why she had deactivated the holodeck’s safety protocols, and that wasn't a conversation that O’Clare wanted to have. She was grateful that the lift doors opened almost instantly and she was able to step into it unobserved.

As the doors closed behind her she rolled her neck to try and relieve some of the tension building in the strained muscles there. “Deck Two. Make no further stops on the way. Command authorization O'Clare Seven Nine Piper Omega.” The lift chimed in acknowledgement and smoothly shifted into motion, bringing her to her destination in a matter of seconds. The _Hornet_ was a small ship, after all.

The turbolift doors hissed open and O'Clare saw that Deck Two was, as usual, completely deserted. It was one of the smallest areas of the ship, just beneath the bridge dome, and only held her quarters and the rear observation lounge. A few quick steps brought her to the door of her quarters, which slid open, and then she was inside and away from potential prying eyes. She could finally relax. She could finally drop the _bat’leth_ and exalt in how tired she finally felt and -

“So, we're you going to go to Sickbay to get that taken care of, or is one of the unspoken perks of being a starship captain not having to worry about blood loss?”

O'Clare froze as Doctor Astrid Rogers stood from where she had been sitting in the shadows and stepped forward. Her lab coat hung over the back of the chair she had vacated and she was out of uniform, instead wearing a plain turquoise sweater and loose grey slacks. O'Clare felt a pang of self-consciousness as the cold air of her quarters quickly chilled her sweat-drenched workout gear, but she clenched her jaw and stood up all the straighter. “Doctor, what the hell are you doing in my quarters?”

If Rodgers was cowed by O'Clare’s frosty tone, she showed no sign. Her reply sounded almost teasing. “Emergency medical overrides are very convenient when you need to get through a locked cabin door.”

“There's no medical emergency here. I could put you on report for intruding on my privacy.”

“You could,” the doctor replied as she stepped back to reach into a pocket in her lab coat, “but you won't.” She produced a dermal regenerator and walked over to O'Clare, grabbing the shorter woman by the upper arm and leading her over to the couch that ran along the port side bulkhead. O'Clare went along more out of surprise the anything else. “Now sit down while I grab you a towel.”

Rodgers plucked O'Clare's _bat’leth_ out of her hand, tossed it onto a chair, and ducked into the bathroom. The captain sat on the couch in silent surprise until Rodgers returned holding a damp washcloth, and she settled down beside her. O'Clare couldn't control a jump of surprise at how cold the cloth felt on her still-sweaty skin, but she managed to contain any further reaction as the doctor methodically and tenderly cleaned the dried blood from around the wound and then ran the dermal regenerator over it. When Rodgers had finished, she set the tool and towel both down on the coffee table and turned to look O'Clare in the eyes. “So Ellie,” she said quietly, “do you want to tell me what stupid, self-destructive thing you were just doing, or do I need to make it an order?”

O’Clare flinched away and said nothing; after a moment, she calmly stood up, picked up the discarded _bat’leth_ , and carried it over to a small rack on the wall, where she hung it up and then stood there, staring at it. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Astrid, I thought we were past this.”

“You know we aren’t. You know the conditions that Starfleet Medical set when they authorized your promotion six months ago. You know that I’m not here as just your friend.”

“You’re here as their watchdog.”

“I’m here as your doctor, dammit!” O’Clare felt Rodgers’ hand on her shoulder and let herself be turned around. She was unprepared for the raw emotion on the doctor’s face, the tears welling in her eyes. “I’m worried about you, Ellie. I have been for a long time. When they put me on your ship I was ecstatic because I thought it was an opportunity to reconnect after too many years apart. When they told me to keep an eye on you, when they told me what you’d been through, I said I’d do it because I care about you. And for six months you’ve shut me out, just like you have the rest of this crew. You tell me the bare minimum to satisfy Starfleet’s requirements for your continued mental health, and then you just put the walls back up. And now _this_?”

O’Clare’s wrist hurt as Rodgers grabbed it, the still-tender site of the now-healed wound flaring up in agony that cut far deeper than the original injury. “What the hell were you doing in there? Since when do you use a _bat’leth_?”

A part of O’Clare wanted to break down there and then, to tell Rodgers everything. A part of her missed being so close to this woman. Memories flooded into her mind unbidden - a sharp tickling pain along her left shoulder blade, the taste of Aldebaran whiskey, Rodgers’ laugh as they stepped from the stifling heat of the tattoo parlor into the chill of a spring night in San Francisco - and she had to bite her lip so hard that she tasted blood. She had to keep control.

Rodgers let go of O’Clare’s wrist and stepped back, her brow furrowing in concern. “Ellie? Are you okay?”

“I will be,” she whispered in reply. “Please believe me, Astrid.”

“I want to. But I can’t exactly take that on faith.” Rodgers paused. “Ellie, sit down. I promise I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you or anything, okay? Just sit down and talk to me.”

O’Clare walked back towards the couch, every step tense. The feeling of fluid grace and pulsing blood from her _bat’leth_ practice was gone and now every muscle felt on the verge of cramping up. “You never were a very good ship’s counselor.” The quip flew out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. She felt a giggle bubble up in her throat and she almost choked on it. If she let it out, tears wouldn’t be far behind.

Rodgers chuckled. “Well, there’s a reason I went into xenogenetics.” She walked over to the replicator. “Two hot chocolates.” The cups materialized and she brought them back to the couch, sitting one down on the crystal coffee table in front of O’Clare and keeping the other for herself.

They sat in silence for five minutes, slowly sipping at their drinks, before Rodgers spoke again. “Commander Seabrook came to see me earlier today.”

“Oh?”

“He’s worried about you.”

“So why did he go to you?”

“He did some research, saw we’d been at the Academy together, and figured he’d ask if we knew each other.”

O’Clare took a drink in hopes of making her mouth feel less dry. “And what did you tell him?”

“The truth.”

“And what _is_ the truth, Astrid?”

“That we knew each other. That up until we both stepped foot on this ship we hadn’t spoken in years. And that you’re still the next best thing to a sister that I’ve ever had, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone ruin your career - whether it’s you or some desk jockey back at Starfleet Medical.”

O’Clare heard a tiny splash and looked down to see that a single tear had rolled down her cheek and into her hot chocolate. “What else did you tell him?”

“That, speaking as the _Hornet_ ’s Chief Medical Officer, it wasn’t any of his business.” Rodgers put a gentle hand on O’Clare’s shoulder. “And it’s going to stay that way, so long as you _talk to me_. Whatever you have bottled up, it’s killing you, Ellie.”

“I said I’d be fine, Astrid.” She set her mug down on the coffee table maybe a little too forcefully, and some of the hot chocolate sloshed over the rim and onto the crystal surface.

“Which is different from being fine now.” Rodgers kept her own mug in her hand but had stopped drinking. She was staring intently at O’Clare’s forearm. “Why did you deactivate the holodeck safety protocols?”

“Who says I did?”

“You were a weapons specialist in the Academy. You may not have used a _bat’leth_ back then, but you’ve never been so clumsy as to cut yourself like that. You wouldn’t spar with anyone else on the ship. That means a holographic opponent. And I know for a fact that our EMH doesn’t know how to fence. So, that means the holodeck, with safeties off.”

O’Clare ran her finger through the spilled hot chocolate on the coffee table. “I had to know if I could face them again.”

“Face who, Ellie?”

“The…” The word stuck in her throat. And it was such a simple word to say. She swallowed and tried to get it out, but it wouldn’t come. Yet she was determined for some reason that she couldn’t name to try and say something of substance to this woman who, in the face of all reason, still seemed to care about her. “What do you know about the destruction of the _Trieste_?”

“Your old ship? Just what I was briefed about when I came aboard. The ship and almost all hands were lost in a Klingon strike in the opening days of the war, and you managed to barely escape.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“I’m guessing there was more to it, then. Was that why you were on the holodeck? Brushing up on fighting Klingons? They’re our allies again, Ellie. And they won’t try anything stupid or aggressive until the Dominion isn’t breathing down both our necks.”

“They might say they’re our allies. Some of them might even mean it. But some of them can’t be trusted.” She took a deep breath. “The _Trieste_ wasn’t just shot down. The Klingon captain in charge of the squadron that ambushed us was a sadist. He played with us like a cat does a mouse. And when the ship started to come apart, when we all ran to the escape pods, when we thought we were safe… he blew the pods out of space, one by one.”

Rodgers visibly paled. “That isn’t in the official report.”

“Of course it isn’t.” O’Clare could feel bile rising in her throat, could feel her face flushing as her memories of that awful day felt like they were going to capsize her and leave her as helpless as she had felt back then. “The report probably doesn’t say that he only spared me because I was the only occupant of the last pod to get out. He left me alive to tell the Federation to fear his name. And now…” The first sob wrenched its way out of her like an earthquake. Rodgers moved closer to her on the couch and put an arm around her shoulders, and it was all O’Clare could do to keep talking. She had begun to shake like a leaf in a hurricane. “And now we’re going to be working with that ridge-faced bastard. Now we’re allies again and we all have to smile and get along but I know he’ll just be waiting for the right time to stab us in the back.” She was hyperventilating. When had she started to do that? “Don’t trust him. Don’t believe him. He killed them all, Astrid! He…”

It was as if a dam had broken inside her and every drop of water in her soul poured out in a torrent of agonized wails. O’Clare wasn’t sure how long she sat there crying, or when she had collapsed with her head in Rodgers’ lap, but when she was aware of the world around her again her whole face hurt. Rodgers was slowly stroking her hair, holding her close and saying nothing.

When O’Clare next spoke, her years of Starfleet experience were gone from her voice; it was high and reedy and trembled with anticipated pain. “I’m scared, Big Bear.”

Rodgers stopped running her hand through the tangled mess that had been O’Clare’s meticulous bun. She chuckled a little, but it sounded more nostalgic than amused. “I don’t think you’ve called me that since you sent me that letter before your last final at the Academy. The one where you were terrified that you weren’t going to ace the advanced squadron tactics simulation, and you didn’t think you’d get the posting you were hoping for, and your career would be ruined, and…” She trailed off.

“This is different.”

“I know it is,” Rodgers replied. “But you can get through this. You aren’t alone, Little Bear.” O’Clare felt a wet splatter against the side of her face and knew that Rodgers was crying now too. “I’m sorry you’re hurting so much. I’m sorry that you haven’t felt like you could talk to me.”

“I couldn’t risk you telling them -” she tried to interrupt.

“I would never.” Rodgers’ voice was as hard as neutronium. “I take my duties seriously, not just as a Starfleet officer, but as your friend. I know you’re strong. Just stop hiding this shit from me. Please.”

O’Clare’s voice was almost inaudible. “I promise.”

“Good.”

They sat like that for a while longer, neither of them saying anything, just enjoying the silence and the comfort of each other’s presence. O’Clare knew somehow that nothing had been fixed. She was still terrified of facing Brota again, but she also knew that she wouldn’t have to face him alone. 

That made it a little less frightening.


	9. Chapter 9

“Two minutes to the Setlik system, Captain,” buzzed Maron, the Benzite currently at the _Hornet_ ’s helm. It was late at night, ship’s time, and while the gamma shift officers had mostly taken their posts, O’Clare had uncharacteristically decided to stay on the bridge to supervise the ship’s arrival at Setlik III.

“Very good, Mr. Maron,” she replied, glancing at the chronometer. “It’s only 2340 - your arrival estimate when you took the helm put us closer to 0100. Did you increase speed without telling me?” She tried hard to put humor in her voice. Her conversations with Astrid over the past two days had helped her understand that if her crew was going to trust her, she’d have to do a better job with developing a rapport.

“Captain?” The Benzite turned to look over his shoulder, his face a mix of indignation and surprise behind the rebreather unit he wore on his chest. “I would never disobey orders that way! We simply managed to stumble across a subspace eddy that increased our relative velocity by a significant factor and -”

“It’s alright, Mr. Maron,” she said, cutting him off gently. “It was a poor attempt at humor, not an insult to your integrity as a Starfleet officer.” _A very poor attempt at humor. Astrid was always the funny one. And even Seabrook manages to make them laugh. Maybe this isn’t the way I’m meant to lead._ She cleared her throat. “Well done on navigating the subspace eddy, Ensign. Every minute we’re ahead of schedule is another minute we can keep the border in this sector secure.”

Maron looked mollified, or at least as mollified as his heavy features could convey. “Thank you, Captain.” He turned back to his console and reached out to modify the ship’s heading slightly. “Dropping out of warp now.”

On the main viewscreen, the streaking star-lines of warp speed solidified back into their usual brilliant pinpricks, and the emerald sphere of Setlik III loomed ahead. “What’s the situation out there, Lieutenant T’ris?” O’Clare asked the young Vulcan woman at the tactical station.

“There are several civilian vessels in the immediate area, Captain,” she replied coolly. “Two freighters in geosynchronous orbit above the colony center, a third freighter outbound from the planet, and a pair of smaller craft that seem to have entered the system only a minute or two ahead of us. All Federation registry.” A chime came from her console. “We are being hailed by the colony administration.” She arched an immaculate eyebrow. “Audio only.”

From O’Clare’s right, Seabrook spoke up. “Audio only? That’s odd.”

She glanced over at him. The commander had been relatively quiet for the past two hours, obviously tired but refusing to abandon the bridge if his captain was also going to stay late. This news seemed to have woken him from his near-stupor. “Agreed. Open a channel, Lieutenant.”

There was a hiss over the speakers, and then a feminine human voice began to speak in a nasal tone that immediately made O’Clare cringe. “This is Administrator Taggert to inbound Federation starship. Can you hear me?”

O’Clare and Seabrook shared a confused look. “Administrator Taggert, this is Captain Elizabeth O’Clare of the USS _Hornet_. Is everything alright down there?”

“Oh yes, just fine, just fine!” There was a noise over the comm channel that sounded suspiciously like someone slamming a hyperspanner into a piece of particularly sensitive equipment. “Just been having the most inconvenient malfunctions down here the past two days. We were hoping to have things back to normal before you arrived, but you seem to have the drop on us!” The administrator’s laugh reminded O’Clare of the seagulls that used to roost in the rigging of her father’s fishing boat.

“If you’d like, Administrator, I could have a few of my engineers beam down to lend you a hand with any repairs.”

“That would be lovely. Just lovely!” There was more banging from the hypothetical hyperspanner, and Seabrook visibly cringed. O’Clare actually had to stifle a laugh at the face he was making. “Oh, would you care to join me for dinner this evening? I know being a starship captain must be such a busy job, but I would appreciate getting to know the woman responsible for keeping an eye on us helpless civilians down here.” That cawing laugh came again, and now it was O’Clare’s turn to grimace. _That was a bit of a blunt way to phrase things. This Administrator is either utterly lacking in subtlety or an incredibly canny politician. Or maybe both._

“I would be delighted, Administrator,” she replied, internally commending herself on what she thought was a very diplomatic tone that didn’t convey the least bit of the trepidation she felt at spending an entire meal listening to the other woman’s cacophonous voice. “May I extend this invitation to my first officer?” Seabrook’s eyebrows shot up at that, and she winked at him.

“Why not?” Administrator Taggert replied. “The more, the merrier. I’ll see the two of you at 1800 - and I hope you like yamok sauce!”

“We look forward to it. _Hornet_ out.” There was a chime from behind her as T’pris closed the channel, and O’Clare settled back into her seat.

“We look forward to it, do we?” Seabrook deadpanned, and O’Clare felt herself smile.

“Call it a captain’s prerogative, Mr. Seabrook. You’ll be along to make sure the conversation doesn’t falter. Or that the Administrator doesn’t start hitting things with a hyperspanner if it does.” This time, her quip managed to make Seabrook, along with several of the other bridge officers, chuckle. “I think now’s as good a time as any to call it a night - you all can get back to your regular duty shifts and not worry about me staring over your shoulders. Lieutenant T’pris, you have the conn. I’ll be in my ready room going over reports before I retire for the evening.” She got up and strode towards the door, leaving the command chair for the young Vulcan, and she began counting the seconds in her head.

Less than a minute after O’Clare had sat down at the desk in her ready room, Seabrook entered without knocking. She cocked an eyebrow as she set down her mug of hot cocoa. “You know, Commander, the fact that you’ve stopped knocking, even perfunctorily, before just barging in here is going to start all _kinds_ of rumors among the crew.”

Her quip stopped the commander in his tracks, and he blinked like a startled goat. “What?”

“Never mind. Sit down, Seabrook.”

He did so, his two-meter frame dwarfing the standard-issue chair almost comically. He frowned as he looked at her, although she thought his lips twitched in the other direction for a moment. “Alright, I give up,” he said. “Who are you, and what have you done with Captain O’Clare?” Then he paled visibly. “Wait, that’s a bad joke to tell when you’re at war with shapeshifters. Sorry.”

O’Clare couldn’t contain her laugh. It burst out of her like water too long under pressure, and after a second it swept Seabrook up and he began to laugh too. After a minute they had both regained their composure, although they were both grinning widely. O’Clare was struck with the realization that this might be the first moment that she didn’t feel the need to have her guard up around him, and that feeling so vulnerable felt oddly comforting. _Might as well see how far I can take this._

“Commander,” she said hesitantly, “I realize that, ever since I took command of the _Hornet_ , I haven’t been exactly what you’d call a ‘hands-on captain.’”

“That might be considered an understatement, depending on who you asked,” he replied, still grinning.

She tried to not shoot him a dirty look, and succeeded. Mostly. “Yes. Well. Let’s just say that I haven’t had the easiest transition to the command track. And I appreciate the job you’ve been doing in taking care of the crew in my absence. But with our new mission, I can’t afford to be so distant, and that means I’m going to need some more support from you.”

“Name it, Captain,” he said. His azure eyes were intense and probing, and she felt like they could see past her rank and her uniform and straight to the fears that lay just underneath. Despite all his quirks and bad habits, never mind his very odd relationship with his cat, Commander Seabrook was a man of unparalleled awareness, and it would do her well to remember that fact.

“Do you remember the name of the Klingon who will be leading our recon detachment?”

“Brota, of House… something or other. I haven’t paid much attention to Klingon house politics. The _Galahad_ rarely wound up along their border, even during the war.”

“House Noggra. A relatively minor house, partially because they have their fingers in a number of industries that mainstream Imperial society considers… distasteful. Brota himself is a particularly zealous representative of the family. He’s cruel, arrogant, impulsive, indulgent, and every other pejorative term that Federation citizens have thrown at Klingons in general for over a century.”

“He sounds like a fine, upstanding gentleman,” Seabrook joked, but then his tone turned thoughtful. “And you sound as if you know him personally.”

O’Clare took a sip from her cocoa and took a moment to formulate her words. “Captain Brota and I met during the war last year. He left quite an impression on me.”

Seabrook furrowed his brow. “You mean he was the one who shot down the _Trieste_.”

_I don’t know why I thought I could skirt around this._ “Yes,” she said, trying to not let the pain into her voice. She sighed. “Astrid told me you’d been digging around.”

“Can you blame me for just wanting to get to know my captain better? You haven’t exactly been forthcoming with personal details. Hell, the official record just lists the _Trieste_ as lost - all the details are classified. But you’re obviously carrying some baggage about this, so it wasn’t hard to put two and two together and get a _petaQ’_.” He smiled. “So, this Brota was champing at the bit to take on Starfleet in ‘glorious battle’” - O’Clare could hear the scare quotes almost dripping with sarcasm - “and now we have orders to play nice with him and let bygones be bygones. But you don’t trust him. Am I on track so far?”

She nodded. “I trust him about as far as I can kick a Bird-of-Prey.”

“I don’t know, if we got the drop on them, we could kick a _B'rel_ pretty far. Don’t sell the _Hornet_ short, Captain, she may be small, but she’s got it where it counts.”

She smiled. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Commander.”

“So how can I help, exactly?”

O’Clare stood and walked from the desk up the two short steps to the viewports, staring out at the expanse of Setlik III below them. “As you said, I don’t trust him. I’d rather not go into specifics, but he made it personal last time, and call me paranoid but I wouldn’t put anything past him this time around. He seemed like the opportunistic sort, political alliances be damned.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” Seabrook said cautiously.

“I’m getting to that.” O’Clare ground her teeth. “This is hard to admit, but I can’t afford to not be objective. I have a fairly obvious bias against Brota. It’s within the realm of possibility that he’ll follow orders and be on the level. I can’t be jumping at shadows, especially not in front of a Klingon that I need to be seen as an equal to.”

“So you want me to jump at the shadows for you?”

She turned back around and smiled at him. “Say instead that I want you at my back, holding a flashlight. A very large flashlight.”

“Something the size of a Type-X phaser array?”

“That’ll do nicely, Commander.”

He nodded and stood up. “Say no more. I’ll keep an eye on the Klingons. Two eyes, even, as often as I can spare them.” He chucked at what O’Clare assumed must be some kind of inside joke he had with himself. “Anything else?”

She shook her head. “Get some sleep, Commander. I think I saw you nodding off on the bridge there.”

He blushed, and it was fairly visible, even through his overgrown beard. _I don’t think he’s shaved since we got the word from Admiral Nechayev - and if that’s the case, I don’t want to think about what a mess I must look like right now._  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain. I was meditating.”

“Meditating? You’ve never struck me as the spiritual sort, Seabrook.”

“Oh yes. I meditate all the time.”

“I see. I was unaware that there were meditation practices that involved snoring.”

His blush darkened further until his face looked like a particularly hirsute cranberry. “Yes, well…”

“Get some sleep,” she said, trying to soften the blow with a smile. “That’s an order.”

Seabrook saluted. “Aye, Captain,” he barked, and quickly pivoted on his heel to leave. Before he reached the door sensor, he looked back over his shoulder. “I would suggest you do the same, ma’am. Eight hours until the briefing doesn’t leave you much rack time.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Thank you. And Captain?”

“Yes, Commander?”

“Thank you for trusting me with this. Brota won’t pull one over on us. I promise.”

Something about his earnestness made her heart ache. When she managed to respond, her voice was very small. “Thank you, Commander. That will be all.”

He stepped out the door without another word. O’Clare walked back to her desk and took a sip of her cocoa. It had gone cold. She resignedly put it back in the replicator slot to recycle it and headed towards her quarters. She was quiet as she walked through the bridge, keeping a calm eye on the gamma shift officers as they went about the routine business of entering a patrol orbit around Setlik III. _I can trust them. They’ll do their jobs._

_But that was never really the issue, was it?_

The turbolift doors whispered shut behind her.


	10. Chapter 10

For the past six months, whenever Elizabeth O’Clare had attended staff meetings, which she had begun to admit to herself was not as often as she should have, she had at best been precisely on time and at worst the last one to arrive. While she deeply believed that to some degree it was a captain’s prerogative to start a meeting with her very presence, her recent conversations with Seabrook and Astrid had begun to bring to light the thought that she had not been cultivating the kind of authority with which she wanted to have over her crew. That was why she had already set up in the briefing room well before the meeting was scheduled to begin, a small stack of PADDs spread across the table in front of her and an almost comically large mug of coffee gripped tightly in both hands. _Captains_ , she thought wryly, _can’t afford to not be morning people._ She took a sip from the mug and grimaced as the bitter taste assaulted her palate. _I’ll never understand how people can drink this stuff black, but at least it kicks like Uncle Patrick’s mule._

Setting the mug down, she picked up a PADD containing a map of their assigned section of the border with the Cardassian Demilitarized Zone. _Almost a hundred cubic light-years of territory to cover with one starship and a handful of Klingon fighters. I don’t know how Command expects us to pull this off._ She grimaced and threw the PADD back on the table, turning her chair to stare out the briefing room viewport. Setlik III’s small moon, Khonsu, was a shining crimson disc hanging just off the Hornet’s starboard bow, but the ship’s orbital trajectory meant that the planet was outside of her field of view. _I’ll be damned if I let logistical nonsense get in the way of doing my job. But I’ll be doubly damned if I let my pride result in yet another tragedy for the citizens of Setlik III._

Behind her the door hissed open, and she turned to see Seabrook stride in, his cat comically cradled his left arm. He looked more well-groomed than he had the previous evening, or at least he had managed to shave; his salt-and-pepper hair seemed to have won out against whatever comb he had used on it, because it was still sticking up slightly on the left side. Without a word to her, he walked over to the replicator in the starboard bulkhead, unceremoniously dropping Steve onto the floor next to him. Steve landed on his feet easily enough and immediately began pawing at Seabrook’s leg. O’Clare smiled as her first officer gave the cat what he must have thought was an intimidating glare. “Yeah, yeah, you furry jerk, hang on.” He turned his attention to the replicator. “One coffee, dead eye, and a dish of feline nutritional supplement thirty-seven.” The coffee and the cat food materialized, and he quickly put the cat food down on the floor just as Steve seemed to think that leaping up into the replicator alcove might be a good idea. As the cat began to eat with impressive gusto, Seabrook picked up his coffee, took a long gulp, and finally turned to face O’Clare. “Captain!” he said with forced joviality. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this early for a meeting before.” He walked around the table to take his seat at her right hand and glanced at her coffee mug. “And I definitely don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink black coffee.”

She picked up her mug and toasted him. “Didn’t you hear, Commander? We’re at war. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Speaking of which, what on Earth is a ‘dead eye coffee?’”

He toasted her back, took a quick sip, and set his own mug down. “Black coffee with a triple shot of espresso. The perfect drink for anyone with a command-division-quality caffeine addiction.”

She smiled at him. “Sounds like a dangerous way to start your day.”

“Didn’t you hear? We’re at war. Just getting out of bed is dangerous.”

“Touché.” She took a drink of coffee and began sorting the pile of PADDs in front of her. “So, are you always the first one to show up for these meetings, or did you have as much trouble sleeping as I did?”

“I try to get in early. Set a good example for the senior staff and all that noise. Generally, Dr. Rodgers is the next to arrive, with Ruul and El-Amin showing up after - and I’ve noticed that for morning meetings sometimes they arrive conspicuously close together - and Zonn, Gren, and Sotek show up last. Even odds between the three as to which will be the last one in; between Bolian absentmindedness, Vulcan punctuality, and Tellarite stubbornness, I haven’t been able to see a pattern to who’s the best bet.”

She tried not to wince at his offhanded implication that she hadn’t been setting a particularly good example herself. _Remember what Piper used to say: "If you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I can’t let my past mistakes weigh me down._

Apparently she instead winced at the still-painful memory of her former captain, because Seabrook gave her a concerned gaze over the top of his coffee mug. “Captain, are you alright?"

“An unpleasant trip down memory lane, that’s all.” She stacked the last of the PADDs up and settled back in her chair. “So, how long until people start to arrive?”

He chuckled and finished off the last of his coffee, then rose to take the empty mug back to the replicator, glancing at the chronometer on the LCARS panel at the front of the alcove. “Astrid should be coming in any moment now. And give me a raktajino.”

As if on cue, Astrid entered the briefing room just as the old mug was replaced by a fresh one with a shimmer of light. Her blonde hair was perhaps a bit more disheveled than usual - _Do we have an entire command staff composed of night owls?_ O’Clare thought to herself - and she had her own coffee mug clenched tightly in one hand. She plopped down unceremoniously into the seat next to Seabrook and some of her coffee sloshed onto her otherwise pristine, if rumpled, lab coat.

“I see you’re just as much of a morning person now as you were in the Academy, Astrid,” O’Clare teased, and the doctor shot her a level glare as she slowly drank her coffee.

Rodgers took on a frosty tone, her voice still obviously husky from sleep. “I like you. And you’re my captain. But please remember who gives the physicals on this ship.” She gave a sly wink and gave her full attention back to her coffee.

Over the next five minutes the rest of the senior staff showed up: first El-Amin, as bright-eyed and metaphorically bushy-tailed as ever; then Ruul, who looked slightly less bright-eyed and considerably more literally bushy-tailed; then finally Sotek, Zonn, and Gren. Each of them either came bearing a mug or went immediately to the replicator for their stimulant of choice - specifically coffee or raktajino for all of them except Sotek, who went for a strong Vulcan tea. Each of them, again except for Sotek, showed varying degrees of surprise that O’Clare had beaten them there.

As Gren finally took his seat, O’Clare cast her gaze across each of her senior officers and deadpanned, “Well, if I’d known just how much coffee everyone was going to need this morning, I’d have replicated a samovar.” There was a smattering of chuckles from around the table, along with a single snort from Seabrook. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is going to be a fairly short briefing, I just wanted everyone brought up to speed on the situation.” She rose from her seat and stepped over to the room’s wall display, bringing up a map of the Setlik system. “We achieved orbit around Setlik III just before midnight last night. Projections from the data Starfleet has given us suggest that our Klingon allies will be arriving in approximately forty hours. Until they arrive, we’ll be the only friendly presence in this sector, so I want long-range sensors running at maximum output. We will remain in the immediate area of Setlik III until our reinforcements arrive - the colony is the most strategically valuable target around, so until we can establish a sensor net and patrol routine, we may as well set up camp here.” She hit a key on the display, bringing the map into focus on Setlik III. “Commander Seabrook, would you care to fill the rest of the staff in on our conversation with Administrator Taggert last night?”

Seabrook took a sip from his coffee and set it back down as he stood. “Of course, Captain.” He took her place at the display while she resumed her own seat. “The Captain and I have been invited to a semi-formal reception at the residence of Amelia Taggert, leading member of the colony’s administrative council. It starts at 1800 local time, which translates to around 1400 on the ship’s clock - I’ll be sending out revisions to the duty roster so that we can adjust to Setlik’s planetary time while we’re in-system.”

Lieutenant Ruul raised a clawed hand. “Sirrr, will we be authorizing shore leave requests?”

“Not this time, Lieutenant.” Seabrook shook his head. “We’re technically within the boundaries of the Cardassian DMZ here, although the system is Federation space. With no recon and no sensor net to tell us just how many Cardie or Dominion ships might be hanging out and waiting to catch us with our pants down, I want the ship to remain on yellow alert.”

Gren snorted. “But you and the captain get to go to a _party_?”

O’Clare cut in before Seabrook had the chance to respond. “Mister Gren, we are attending a diplomatic function out of courtesy for the very people we’ve been sent here to protect. So unless you’re volunteering to join the delegation, the next words out of your mouth about that party had better be ‘have a lovely time, Captain.’ Do I make myself clear?”

The Tellarite engineer looked about as abashed as it was possible for someone of his perpetually argumentative species to be. “Of course, Captain.”

She smiled. “Besides, I’d rather subject as few of you to Administrator Taggert’s idea of ‘hospitality’ as possible. What was it she mentioned she’d be highlighting at dinner tonight, Commander?”

Seabrook made a face. “Yamok sauce. Disgusting stuff. I tried some the last time the _Galahad_ stopped by DS9 - that grubby little Ferengi bar there had it in every other dish.”

Sotek raised an eyebrow as he set down his tea. “Interesting. Why would a Cardassian condiment be popular on a colony that was almost wiped out by Cardassian aggression over a decade ago?”

Tykia Zonn leaned forward and asked conspiratorially, “What if the administrator is a Cardassian agent?”

Laughing, Seabrook walked back around the table to sit down. “It’s more likely that the Cardassians left a cache or two of supplies on the planet when they withdrew, and the colonists used what they could while they were waiting for additional relief. Maybe that kind of desperation is what it takes to develop a taste for the stuff.”

“Besides,” O’Clare added, “if she’s a Cardassian agent I’ll eat my combadge. The Obsidian Order’s capacity for skullduggery might be legendary, but no self-respecting Cardassian would let herself get stuck impersonating _that_ woman.” At this, Seabrook began to choke on his coffee. She gave him a glance. “Why Commander, is everything alright?”

Seabrook wiped coffee out of his beard. “Just wasn’t expecting you to say that, Captain.”

She grinned, and on a whim she clenched her throat and squawked, “Oh, that’d be lovely, just lovely!”

This time, Seabrook didn’t have any coffee to choke on, and he laughed delightedly. “Why Captain, I didn’t know you had such a gift for impressions!”

Ruul turned to El-Amin, who was sitting next to her. “Is this some human kind of humorrrr, or do you not get the joke eitherrr?”

“Let’s just say you had to be there, Lieutenant,” O’Clare said with a smile. “And that if you do wind up having any conversations with Administrator Taggert, you’ll have a new definition for the word “seagull.’”

“That, Captain,” Seabrook said as he checked his uniform for coffee stains, “is an understatement. The woman sounds like a flock of seagulls wearing a human suit.”

O’Clare chuckled. “And on that note, I think we’ve covered everything critical this morning. Lieutenant Ruul, I want a tactical appraisal of this system on my desk by 1200. Work with Commander Sotek to see if there are any astronomical phenomena that either we could take advantage of or might be used against us. Everyone else, fill in your departments and let’s make sure this ship is combat-ready by the top of the hour. Dismissed!”

The assembled officers quickly rose from their seats and got moving, with Ruul and Sotek meeting on the way out and the others already reaching for combadges to call department meetings. Rodgers remained seated, however, and waited for everyone else to clear out before turning to O’Clare and saying, “Alright, Ellie, I’m impressed. I haven’t seen you crack that many jokes since you tried doing stand-up at that open mic night in Berkeley back in your sophomore year at the Academy.”

“What can I say?” O’Clare said. “I’m feeling a little more like my old self lately.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the doctor responded. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a sickbay to go prep while hoping fervently that my services won’t be required.” She made her own exit, leaving Seabrook and O’Clare alone.

The commander stood up, returned his empty coffee mug to the replicator, and turned to O’Clare. “If that’ll be all, Captain, I’ll be heading back to my quarters to drop Steve off.” He gestured at the cat, which had fallen asleep under the table.

“Sounds like an excellent plan, Commander. I’ll be in my ready room if you need anything.”

He bent over to pull the cat out from under the table, and there was a low growl that quickly turned into a purr after a timely application of tummy rubs. “You’ve got it. Dinner’s at 1400, so I’d assume we should beam down at 1345?”

“I’ll meet you in the transporter room at 1340. Full dress. Might as well try and look like we want to be there, right?”

He smiled warmly at her. “Right. 1340, full dress. It’s a date. Just you, me, and Administrator Seagull.”

The door hissed shut behind him.


	11. Interlude 2

He hates the dress uniform. He knows this is ironic, because all things being even it’s nearly identical to the skant-style duty uniform he’s worn almost every day for the past two years. Except the skant has short sleeves and a lighter fabric, while wearing the dress uniform feels like he’s been wrapped in industrial packing material.

_ I should be grateful that I’m even here _ , Ensign Lewellyn Seabrook tells himself as he tries to avoid adjusting his collar for the fifth time in the past minute.  _ But I never expected a formal event to involve this much literal chafing _ .

He is standing against one wall of the observation lounge-cum-banquet hall on Helaspont Station, holding a flute of syntheholic champagne in his hand, and as he stares out at the veritable sea of Starfleet brass and Federation diplomats he wonders just how in the name of the Great Bird of the Galaxy he wound up there. He knows why in theory, at least. Captain Akaar - his CO aboard the  _ Wyoming  _ \- had invited him, citing Seabrook’s performance during the last few engagements of the war as reason enough for the young ensign to rub elbows with the elite of the Diplomatic Corps and the Admiralty and -  _ oh Great Bird of the Galaxy the Tzenkethi ambassador just walked past me. We just brought that war to an end, so why did Captain Akaar think bringing an ensign greener than an Orion along was a good idea? I just know I’m going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and set off an interstellar diplomatic incident. I’ll get drummed out of the fleet and be an embarrassment to the family name and I’ll be stuck scrubbing waste conduits on one of Dad’s garbage scows. _

He blinks and realizes that this last thought brought a tear to his eye.  _ Right. Dad’s dead. Dad’s dead and Mom’s dead and way to go, Brook, you got so absorbed in self-pity that you forgot they were casualties of this stupid, pointless war. And here the politicians can all go about eating canapes and blowing smoke up each others’ asses because they’ve done a good deed and stopped a war that should never have happened in the first place _ . He takes a sip of his champagne and grimaces at the lack of actual flavor.  _ Blasted synthehol. Almost as useless as diplomats _ .

“Ensign Seabrook!” a voice calls from nearby, and he turns his head to look. A small cluster of Starfleet officers and Federation diplomats is standing off to his left near one of the buffet tables; standing tallest among them is Leonard Akaar, captain of the  _ Wyoming _ . Akaar’s two-meter-plus stature is made perhaps a little less imposing because of the unflattering nature of his dress uniform, but the middle-aged Capellan still manages to cut quite the figure as he waves Seabrook over to join the conversation.

Seabrook tentatively comes to join the circle, trying not to visibly wince as he realizes just how gratuitously outranked he is by everyone else present. Akaar smiles widely - a rare thing for the normally somber Capellan - and claps a hand on Seabrook’s shoulder. “Everyone, this is Ensign Lewellyn Seabrook, one of my xenocultural specialists. The one with the quick wit who managed to talk us out of that standoff with the Tzenkethi near Temecklia.” There is a round of appreciative nodding from some of the admirals. “Ensign, meet Admirals Zh’thilass, Gromek, Conde, and Sitak, as well as Ambassadors Sarek and Alkar.”

_ Sarek! I am standing in a conversation with one of the most celebrated ambassadors in Federation history. Great Bird of the Galaxy, don’t let me make an ass out of myself.  _ He clears his throat. “It’s an honor to meet you all.” His throat feels more dry than the blasted wastes of Ceti Alpha V and he is surprised that he managed to get any words out at all.

“Ensign,” the Andorian admiral says, her antennae wiggling slightly, “Captain Akaar was quite emphatic about you being the deciding factor in the Temecklia skirmish. I think I speak for all of us when I say we were quite impressed by the tale. But tell me, how did you even think talking your way out of the situation was even possible?”

“Well, Admiral, at the time it seemed preferable to dying while pinned down in a Tzenkethi cross-fire.” He says this earnestly.

The male human admiral -  _ Conde, I think he’s attached to the Diplomatic Corps? Or maybe the Fourth Fleet?  _ \- laughs. “What’s your specialization, Seabrook?”

“Comparative xenoculture, sir.”

“And from that you thought that the Tzenkethi would listen to you?”

Akaar clears his throat. “Admiral, the complete report on the encounter, including Ensign Seabrook’s notes, has been available for three months now. It was a part of the sea change that led to this treaty. There’s no need to interrogate the boy.”

Seabrook finds himself flushing. “Actually, Captain, I wouldn’t mind answering the Admiral’s question.” He cranes his head back to meet his captain’s eyes for a moment, and sees the Capellan acknowledge his assertion with the tiniest of nods. Then he turns back to Admiral Conde. “Sir, the Tzenkethi had our away team pinned down, and their ships had the  _ Wyoming  _ on the defensive, so extraction via shuttlecraft or transporter was not an option. We were outnumbered and outgunned and our team leader, Lieutenant Commander Shanx, had been incapacitated by disruptor fire. So yes, sir, I figured a last-ditch diplomatic overture was worth a try.”

“Even though the Tzenkethi had up until that point rebuffed all attempts at diplomacy?”

“As I said, sir,” he tries to say calmly. “It seemed preferable to accepting our inevitable deaths.”

“The logic of your argument, Ensign, is specious at best,” a calm voice interjects. Seabrook glances over to see Ambassador Sarek, his eyebrow lifted, the perfect portrait of the classic Vulcan. “If all the evidence indicated that conversation with the Tzenkethi was fruitless, your efforts would have been better spent fortifying your defenses and awaiting rescue.”

“Ambassador,” the Vulcan admiral, Sitak, interrupted, “the ensign has already detailed that the likelihood of rescue was minimal at best. Surely, the logical solution was to take action rather than trust in such illogical a concept as hope.” Her own eyebrow is arched to a point perhaps even sharper than Sarek’s.

“You’re missing the point, Sitak,” Zh’thilass says excitedly. “Debate his logic all you want, the boy’s plan  _ worked _ ! But how? And why?” She looks at him, her face flushing with excitement. “Ensign, do you realize that your conversation with the Tzenkethi  _ ter _ is what gave precedent for this treaty?”

Seabrook flushes. “Admiral, I just managed to talk my way out of getting shot.”

“Come now, Seabrook!” Akaar booms. “Modesty does not become you. You managed to get your entire away team out of a firefight and secured safe passage out of the system for the ship. I would say you went above and beyond the call of duty, and I am proud to have you under my command.”   


“Thank you, sir.”  _ This isn’t going how I expected. I don’t know what I expected, but I know this isn’t it _ . He takes another sip of champagne and tries to not stare at the assembled brass.  _ Cleaning waste conduits is starting to sound way less stressful than this conversation _ .

Ambassador Alkar -  _ a Lumerian, I think?  _ \- speaks up quietly. “What do you think of the treaty, Ensign Seabrook? You have had far more contact with the Tzenkethi than even most command-rank officers in Starfleet.” His voice is cold and he seems to be paying more attention to Admiral Conde than to any answer Seabrook might have.

“I’m not sure what to think of it, uh, Mr. Ambassador.”  _ What the hell is the proper title for an ambassador, anyway? Great Bird, why didn’t I brush up on diplomatic protocol before I came here? _

Conde chimes in. “Come now, Ensign. You seem to have as good an idea as any on how the Tzenkethi think. Give us your honest opinion on this treaty.”

_ This is a bad question to answer honestly _ . “Honestly, sir, I think we’ll be lucky if the treaty holds for twenty years. The Tzenkethi have always been open with their utter distrust and even disgust for the Federation, and while they may have been amenable to ending this war before it turned into a meat grinder, that doesn’t mean they’ll suddenly start singing ‘Kumbayah’ or send an envoy over to the Palais de la Concorde for next year’s Federation Day parade. They despise us, and they’ll be looking for any way out of this treaty. We shouldn’t let our guard down.” His answer is greeted with a moment of silence.  _ Shit. That was too honest _ .

Vice Admiral Gromek - an older human woman - clears her throat. “Well, Joseph, you did ask the boy for an honest opinion.”

“I suppose I did,” the other admiral chuckles. “You’re quite cynical for someone so young, Seabrook. The Tzenkethi haven’t said anything that the Klingons didn’t when we were at loggerheads with them right up until the signing of the Khitomer Accords seventy years ago.”

“Yes sir,” Seabrook says. He is trying with all his might to not build up steam behind his argument but something won’t let him just shut up and nod and leave. “But the Klingons, for the most part, learned to respect us as we fought them. We understood each other’s cultures, even if we didn’t always see eye-to-eye on the finer points of social interaction. The Tzenkethi see our social structure as anathema to their own, and they hate us for it. We’d have better luck getting the Tholians or the Cardassians to join the Federation.”

Conde’s eyes narrow. “Is that your opinion from your years of diplomatic service, Ensign?”

“Sir, you asked for my opinion. I’m a xenocultural specialist, comparative studies of societal development are what I do. I am not a trained diplomat, and after the incident on Temecklia I have about as much ambition towards that field as I do towards becoming a professional  _ dom-jot  _ player. But I have looked the Tzenkethi in the eye and I have seen the hatred burning there. The only reason they have for signing this treaty is so that they can prepare to take another swing at us. Thinking otherwise is the kind of narrow-minded foolishness that got thousands of Federation citizens killed in a war that we should have seen coming from a parsec away!”

There is a weight on his shoulder, and Seabrook glances over to see that Akaar has gently placed a hand there. The captain’s voice is comparatively soft, like crushed velvet wrapping around a brick of hullmetal. “Thank you, Ensign. That will be all.”

Seabrook grinds his teeth, then nods at his captain. “Of course, sir.” He turns to the rest of the group. “Admirals, Ambassadors, with your permission.” Gromek nods -  _ guess that technically makes her the boss in this bunch  _ \- and he snaps off a precise, old-fashioned salute before turning on his heel and walking away. He leaves the champagne flute, still half-full, on a side table as he finds the quickest way out of the observation lounge. He has a bottle of something a little stronger stashed in his quarters and he has every intention of drinking as much of it as possible before passing out.  _ It could be worse _ , he tells himself.  _ You didn’t  _ actually  _ curse out a member of the Admiralty. You just got really, really close to it. Way to show your political savvy, Brook. Mom and Dad would be so damned proud. _

He lets the tears flow as he makes his way to a transporter room. He pays no mind to the odd look the Rigelian at the control console gives him as he is beamed back to the  _ Wyoming _ . In ten minutes he is back in the tiny quarters he shares with gamma shift’s shuttlebay deck chief, Ensign Sato, who is currently out, and Seabrook hopes he plans to stay that way. In another ten minutes, Seabrook has finished a large portion of his bottle of Aldebaran whiskey and is beginning to draft his resignation letter. Ten minutes after that, he is asleep, a holo of his parents clutched in one hand, his mind restless with dreams of Tzenkethi disruptor fire.


	12. Chapter 12

Seabrook stood in the transporter room aboard the  _ Hornet _ , glancing at the chronometer on the control console as it changed to read 1339 hours. Grimacing, he ran a finger underneath the collar of his dress uniform. He had been amenable enough to the new duty uniform designs - they were practical and comfortable in a way that the older jumpsuits had never been - but the corresponding new dress uniforms were somehow even less comfortable than the older wraparound tunics had been.  _ And whoever decided that white was a good color to wear to formal events and dinners needs to have their brainpan cleaned out with a phaser. Black was great! Black hid stains! But that damned  _ yamok  _ sauce is going to ruin this uniform as soon as I sit down at the table. And this damned collar chafes like a - _

The door to the transporter room opened and Captain O’Clare strode in.  _ How in the galaxy does she manage to look so comfortable and confident in that monstrosity of a uniform?  _ Her hair had been put up in some kind of braided bun that was much more intricate than he was used to seeing from her, and her uniform’s clean lines flattered and accentuated her athletic figure.  _ I feel like a vaguely humanoid stack of tribbles crammed into an over-starched towel by comparison _ .

“Commander,” she said by way of greeting as she stepped up to him. “You clean up quite well! Let’s just hope you don’t spill  _ yamok _ sauce all over that nice white uniform.”

He grinned at her. “My thoughts exactly, Captain. Are we all set to beam down?”

“I suppose we are,” she said, fiddling with her combadge. “I must admit, I haven’t had the opportunity to attend this kind of formal event in a while. Remind me which one is the salad fork?”

“You’re asking the wrong man. I’ve managed to avoid as many state dinners as possible after one particularly ill-fated banquet back when I was an ensign.”

“Guess we’ll just have to play it by ear, then.” She turned to the Bolian crewman at the transporter console. “Stand by to transport, Chief.”

“Aye Captain,” he replied. “Coordinates are locked in.”

She turned back to Seabrook. “After you, Commander.”

He smiled. “Ladies first, Captain.”

“Oh no, I insist. Age before beauty.”

He had never seen her smile so widely before. As he stepped up onto the transporter platform, he extended his hand to her as gallantly as he knew how. She took his hand and joined him. “Chief Zowas, energize.”

The transporter room dissolved around them, and as always Seabrook felt for the merest eternity of a heartbeat that he existed only as a memory. Then sensation returned - first smell, then hearing, and then finally sight - and he stood beside O’Clare on a smaller transporter pad of an older, civilian-issue style. The pad was in a small room, and the only other occupant was a short Efrosian man in a sober grey suit that matched the room’s sparse and sober grey decor. He nodded at them curtly. “Captain O’Clare, Commander Seabrook, I’m Ran Ha-Galineii, the Administrator’s aide. If you’ll follow me this way, I’ll show you to the banquet room.” Without another word he turned on his heel and started out through the room’s only door, forcing Seabrook and O’Clare to hustle. For a short man, Ha-Galineii had a surprisingly rapid stride.

The walk to the banquet chamber was a fairly short one. The mansion of the Colonial Administrator of Seltik III was a modest building, and from what little they saw it seemed to have as much space devoted to government offices as it did to living quarters. After about five minutes of winding through surprisingly busy corridors, Ha-Galineii led them into a larger room that was surprisingly ornate. The furnishings were almost all made from some kind of dark grey-green wood that Seabrook couldn’t recognize, and the centerpiece of the room was a large, rectangular table, covered in an intricate white lace tablecloth. Sitting at the head of the table was an elderly human woman, slight of build and dark of complexion, with iron-grey hair. As she saw the two Starfleet officers enter the room, she stood up quickly, revealing herself to be well under a meter and a half in height, and walked over to them briskly.

“Well, well! Captain O’Clare, I presume,” she cackled, and Seabrook found himself suppressing a wince. With a voice like that, there was no mistaking who this woman could be. “Administrator Theodosia Taggert, at your service.” She thrust a gnarled hand at O’Clare, who shook it.

“Administrator, it’s a pleasure. May I introduce my first officer, Commander Lewellyn Seabrook?” O’Clare seemed to be doing an excellent job not being visibly upset by just how shrill the Administrator’s laugh was.

Taggert stepped up to him and craned her neck back to look him in the face. “Well, isn’t he a tall drink of something? Pleased to meet you, young man!” 

She extended her hand to him, and Seabrook shook it in return, marvelling at just how tiny it was in his. “Likewise, Administrator,” he said. Then to his surprise, she took his arm in hers as best she could, considering the height difference, and led him over to the table. O’Clare seemed to be almost as caught off guard by this as he was, as she took a few seconds to catch up to them.

“Old Reggie has cooked up quite the spread for us tonight,” Taggert said up to Seabrook. “He’s been the private cook for the Colonial Administrator ever since we rebuilt after the Massacre in ‘62, and the man is an absolute artist.” They reached the table and she stood by her chair expectantly. Seabrook looked from her to the chair and then back at O’Clare, who rolled her eyes at him and nodded at the chair and then Taggert. It took him a second more, during which the Administrator coughed impatiently, and then he quickly moved to pull the chair out from the table for her. “Thank you, Commander,” she said as she took her seat.

O’Clare took the chair to the Administrator’s right and Seabrook quickly followed, sitting at O’Clare’s right and trying to get a bit of distance between himself and Taggert. He was already uncomfortable with just how handsy she had gotten on their short walk over. O’Clare glanced around and cleared her throat. “So, Administrator, just what will we be dining on this evening? I recall you making some mention of  _ yamok  _ sauce. I’m surprised that a Cardassian condiment would be so popular here, given this colony’s history with them.”

The old woman laughed wryly. “Necessity is the mother of invention, Captain. After the Cardassians withdrew, we had to scramble to rebuild, and Federation aid wasn’t as plentiful as we would have liked. The Cardie ground troops wound up leaving a fair amount of supplies behind in their rush off-planet, and so we didn’t have much choice but to eat a lot of Cardassian food for the first few months as we put things back together. We kind of developed a taste for it, and it’s been a part of local cuisine ever since. Although we make our own now, and it’s a little less astringent than the original stuff.” A pair of waiters entered, carrying trays laden with plates of some kind of steaming hot dumplings. “Ah, speak of the devil!”

Seabrook was pleasantly surprised to find his nose not wrinkling at the smell of either the dumplings on his plate or the thick black sauce in the small dish accompanying them. “This certainly doesn’t smell like any  _ yamok  _ sauce I’ve tried before.”

“The secret ingredient,” Taggert replied, “is cardamom! Freshly ground.” She picked up a dumpling, dipped it in her dish of sauce, and popped the entire thing in her mouth. Seabrook had a moment of terror as he worried that she would choke, but managed to suppress his instinct to perform the Heimlich maneuver as Taggert demonstrated that she was perfectly capable of surviving swallowing a whole dumpling. “I swear, some days I’d be happy eating nothing but these dumplings. Old family recipe of Reggie’s -  _ cha siu bao _ , but with a little local twist thanks to the sauce.”

They were delicious, and Seabrook found himself facing an empty plate before he knew it. “Those were excellent, Administrator,” he said. “Is there any chance we could get the recipe?”

The old woman grinned at him. “Of course, Commander. Once the Dominion stop breathing down our necks, I’ll get you all the dumplings you can eat.”

There was an awkward silence at that until O’Clare cleared her throat. “Yes, well, that is why we’re here, Administrator.” A waiter entered to clear their plates. “Starfleet definitely understands your vulnerability here along the DMZ border, and certainly doesn’t want a repeat of what happened the last time Setlik’s citizens were the target of Cardassian aggression.”

“Yes, obviously Starfleet Command is very concerned for my people,” Taggert replied quietly. All of the shrillness and joviality was gone from her voice. “Sending a battle group consisting of one outdated starship! Oh my, yes, the Dominion will be quaking in their boots at the sight of you.”

O’Clare flushed, and her response, while measured in tone, was colored with her angry Irish brogue. “The fleet is spread thin, Administrator, but we will have reserves on standby in case there are any Dominion incursions.”

“And,” Seabrook broke in, hoping to placate both of the women before tempers began to actually flare, “we won’t be the only ship assigned to this system. Our Klingon allies have sent a squadron of ships to supplement our efforts as a border patrol. They should be here in the next day or so. With them acting as early-warning pickets, we should have plenty of warning if Cardassian or Jem’Hadar ships start making a beeline for the colony.”

Taggert grunted. “I hope so, Commander. There aren’t many of us left who remember the Massacre, but I for one have no desire to relive it.”

“Of course,” Seabrook replied. “Administrator, you have our word that we will do everything in our power to protect this colony.” Another waiter entered, this one carrying a tray laden with a large, roasted animal carcass of some kind.

“I hope your Klingon friends will say the same,” Taggert replied warily.

O’Clare looked to be opening her mouth to respond, but stopped as the chime of transporters filled the room. Seabrook cocked his head, recognizing that the tone was off for them to be of Federation make, and looked around to see four large humanoid forms appearing on the other side of the banquet table.

The quartet finished materializing, and there was a loud clatter as the waiter dropped the tray in shock. From his left, Seabrook heard O’Clare mutter a curse in an unfamiliar language, and he felt a small stab of trepidation himself at the sight of their unannounced visitors. Four Klingons in full battle regalia stood before them, their leader smiling broadly. His dark eyes fell on O’Clare, and his smile turned to a vicious grin. He spoke in perfect, unaccented Federation Standard, and his voice was the just the right combination of silken and coarse to make the hair on the back of Seabrook’s neck stand up. “Why, Elizabeth O’Clare,” the Klingon said. “What a pleasure it is to finally meet you in the flesh!”

Seabrook looked at his captain. Her face had gone as pale as moonlight, the muscles in her jaw were so tight they bulged underneath her skin, and he could see her right hand reaching for the phaser that wasn’t there thanks to their dress uniforms. “Brota,” she hissed. “I wish I could say the same.”

_ Why _ , Seabrook asked himself,  _ does every diplomatic dinner have to get so painfully bloody awkward? _


	13. Chapter 13

“Why, Elizabeth O’Clare,” said the Klingon captain, “what a pleasure it is to finally meet you in the flesh!”

Elizabeth O’Clare would not have been more surprised if the Great Bird of the Galaxy had appeared in the dining room, swooped down to perch on her shoulder, and devoured her dinner while reciting dirty limericks disparaging her parentage. She would not have been more surprised if the main course had turned out to be sushi served off the naked body of Admiral Nechayev. She would not have been more surprised if Seabrook had turned to her, gotten down on one knee, and proposed marriage.

Seven months ago, when she had finally received clearance to resume active duty with Starfleet, she had had a very frank conversation with one of her counselors, a mousy Trill woman named Deneva, about how to deal with the likely eventuality of having to encounter Klingons. “The fact of the matter,” Deneva had said, “is that you will probably flip your shit.” Deneva had quite the soft spot for what she called “traditional Terran invective.” O’Clare had asked her to clarify, since her own traditional invectives were decidedly more agrarian in origin. “You’ve been seriously traumatized, Elizabeth,” the Trill had explained. “While you’ve made remarkable progress in your recovery so far, there is only so much therapy can do. It’s entirely likely that, when confronted by Klingons, you will have a major stress reaction. That’s perfectly normal. The important thing is that you handle it in a healthy manner. No flying off the handle.”

O’Clare was very proud of herself for remembering Deneva’s words in that moment, as she stared across the table at the man - the _monster_ \- who had taken her friends away from her. Had hunted them down like helpless animals. Who had left her to die in the cold and the dark of the interstellar void.

Her immediate impulse was to pull out her phaser and reduce Brota to his component subatomic particles, but since she was in her dress uniform, she was unarmed. Mostly. She still had a smaller Type-1 hand phaser hidden in her left boot, as well as the _d’k tahg_ in her right boot, but going for either of those would be obvious, and her odds of pulling off a quickdraw before any of the Klingons could respond were unacceptably low. Her second impulse was to grab a knife from the banquet table and hurl it at Brota, but - probably due to the nature of the appetizer course - there were only spoons, forks, and chopsticks available, none of which were sharp enough to seriously wound a Klingon. So she took a slow, deep breath, and went with her third impulse. She nodded at him and did her best to smile. “Brota. I wish I could say the same.”

The Klingon laughed uproariously and proceeded to sit in the chair directly across from her, lounging in it as if he owned the entire planet. It was only then that he glanced over to Taggert and smiled. The older woman returned the smile, and seemed to be completely unfazed at his sudden disruption of her dinner plans. “Captain Brota, I’m so glad you could make it!” she said through a mouthful of _bao_. “And I see you already know Captain O’Clare! However did the two of you meet?”

O’Clare now found herself wondering if she could at least injure the Administrator with a spoon. Humans, after all, were a fair amount more frail.

“I met the good Captain on the field of battle, Administrator Taggert,” Brota said smoothly.

“You ambushed my ship and left me for dead,” she found herself saying through clenched teeth.

“Bah!” the Klingon replied. “You sound so ungrateful, Elizabeth. Would you have rather you died alongside your weakling of a captain - what was his name? Pipper? Pauper?”

Before O’Clare could give in to yet another violent impulse, Seabrook interjected, his own voice falsely cheerful. “I have to say, Captain Brota, we’re both quite surprised to see you here. Our last strategic update from the Klingon High Command put your ETA at least another day out. However did you manage such a feat of navigational brilliance?”

Brota finally shot a look at Seabrook, sizing him up and obviously not coming away with a very positive impression of the commander. “You obviously do not have high expectations of Klingon warp field theory, Commander…”

“Lewellyn Seabrook, first officer of the USS _Hornet_ . And I have very high expectations of Klingon warp field theory, Captain. But I have equally high expectations of the laws of physics. So I must admit, your timely arrival leaves me a bit confused, and even concerned. If there’s some kind of subspace anomaly that allowed you to travel so quickly, that kind of information should be shared so that we can anticipate its use by the Dominion, don’t you think? After all, we _are_ allies.”

Brota slowly smiled and turned back to O’Clare. “You have a very suspicious underling, dear Elizabeth.”

“I think you just have that effect on people, Brota.”

“You wound me!”

“If a few words are all it takes to wound you, you’re even more of a sniveling _targ_ than I thought you were.”

In an instant, Brota’s demeanor changed from condescendingly jolly to cold and murderous. He launched himself across the table at O’Clare, who only managed to somersault back out of her chair in time because she had been expecting something like this ever since she saw her old enemy materialize. As she came up, she unsheathed her _d’k tahg_ , ready to defend herself against another lunge, but she was surprised to see that Brota was still on the table. Seabrook had acted just as quickly as she had, and was pinning the Klingon captain face-down in a dish of _yamok_ sauce, holding his own Type-1 phaser at the base of Brota’s skull.

“Now now,” Seabrook said in the same falsely cheerful tone as before. “We’re all bosom friends here, Brota. So get up and play nice and I won’t have to etch my initials into your brainpan.” He grabbed a fistful of the Klingon’s hair and lifted him out of the sauce dish. “Understand me?”

Brota met Seabrook’s eyes with a gaze so full of hatred that it was a wonder the commander didn’t burst into flame. Seabrook stared back with equal intensity, and O’Clare saw his finger almost lovingly caress the firing stud of his phaser.

Brota broke eye contact first, blinking as a thick glob of _yamok_ sauce dripped into his eye. “I understand you perfectly, Commander.” His voice was icy.

“Good,” Seabrook replied, and shoved the Klingon back off the table with a crash of dishware and a splatter of Cardassian condiments.

“Administrator Taggert,” O’Clare said, turning to the older woman. “I apologize for the conduct of our… allies. And unfortunately, the commander and I must be returning to the _Hornet_. I’m sorry we won’t be able to enjoy the rest of the meal.”

“Please give Reggie our compliments,” Seabrook chimed in. “Considering what he was able to do with making _yamok_ sauce edible, I do regret not being able to taste the rest of his creations.”

“Of - of - of course, Captain. Commander.” Taggert was visibly shaken and kept glancing nervously at the Klingons. The three toughs were still standing like hirsute gargoyles, while Brota had gotten up and was attempting to regain his dignity by using the tablecloth to mop _yamok_ sauce and crushed _bao_ off his uniform.

“Captain Brota,” O’Clare said, and the Klingon looked up at her. “We will be in touch in regards to security and reconnaissance deployments for system defense. In the meantime, I suggest you return to your ship and clean up, and perhaps find a refresher text on what the Federation considers to be appropriate behavior at diplomatic functions. It’s not quite the same as a tavern brawl on Qo’noS.”

Brota sneered at her but did not respond. He slipped a communicator from his belt, activated it, and with a snarl of “ _Jol yIchu’_!” the Klingons were swept away on columns of orange light.

“Time for us to do the same,” Seabrook said to her, and tapped his combadge. “Seabrook to _Hornet_. The captain and I are returning to the ship ahead of schedule.”

“Aye sir,” came the gruff voice of Chief Engineer Gren, who had the bridge in their absence. “Dinner not to your taste?”

“We had a few party crashers,” O’Clare said. “Gren, tell the senior staff I want them in my ready room in fifteen minutes.”

“Aye captain!” the Tellarite responded. “We’re ready to beam you aboard.”

Seabrook cocked out an elbow. “Captain O’Clare, may I escort you back to our starship?”

She couldn’t help but smile at him as she took his arm. “Of course. And Commander, anyone who can faceplant a Klingon into a bowl of _yamok_ sauce can call me Elizabeth.”

His eyes twinkled. “Elizabeth. I like the sound of that. And in that case, call me Brook, please.”

“By all means.” She tapped her combadge. “O’Clare to _Hornet_. Two to beam up.”


	14. Chapter 14

As soon as they had materialized on the transporter pad aboard the _Hornet_ , O’Clare took off like a shot, and Seabrook found himself hard-pressed to keep up with her. His mind was racing a light-year a minute as he hustled to catch up to the captain before she reached the nearest turbolift. _What in the name of the Great Bird possessed me to act like Dixon goddamned Hill in there? Is this going to incite some kind of diplomatic incident between us and the Empire? That’s the last thing we need, a two-front war. Better start brushing up on my Cardassian._

_Wait, did she really ask me to call her “Elizabeth”?_

Seabrook managed to draw even with O’Clare just as they rounded the last corridor junction before the turbolift and reached out to grab her arm. “Captain, wait!”

She turned around and arched an eyebrow at him. “Make it quick, Brook. We _do_ have a briefing to give.”

“What the hell was all that about down there?”

“It seems pretty obvious to me. Our Klingon colleagues aren’t as inclined towards cooperation as we would like.” Her voice was cool and her smile was growing more brittle by the moment. “We’ll have to keep our eyes open with them around, but I had expected as much.” She turned back around and tapped the call button for the turbolift.

Seabrook stepped forward and gently rested his hand on her shoulder. “Captain… _Elizabeth_. That’s not what I meant. I know you had a run-in with this Brota character before, but why did he try and throttle you like that? What’s going on?”

He could feel the muscles of her shoulder tense up in the heartbeat before she spun back around and swatted his hand away. Her eyes were blazing and her brows were furrowed and she looked like a completely different person; her voice was frosty now, tinged with the brogue that he had come to associate with her temper, and contained none of the humor that he had come to expect from her in recent weeks. “I have told you what you need to know about my relationship with Brota, Commander. I suggest you keep your mind and your questions on the mission at hand and what lies ahead of us, instead of the irrelevant details of the past. Do I make myself clear?”

He blinked. “Crystal.”

“Good.” The turbolift doors hissed open and she strode in. “Now come on.”

The turbolift ride was awkwardly silent, but blessedly quick, thanks to O’Clare’s command override preventing anyone else from using the car. When they reached the bridge, she left him in the dust again as she raced to the door to the conference room, and he arrived several steps behind her, noting the looks of concern on the faces of the bridge crew. As he entered the conference room, he saw that the rest of the senior staff was already all there in their usual seats, and that O’Clare was already making her way to the head of the table. Even though his heart was racing, he still made a quick stop for a cup of coffee from the replicator before taking his own seat at the captain’s side.

Once he was seated, she stood and looked at the assembled officers, took what Seabrook hoped was a calming breath, and launched into the briefing without any preamble. “Our Klingon allies have arrived ahead of schedule and decided to make an appearance at our dinner with Administrator Taggert.”

“Impossible,” hissed Lieutenant Ruul. Her fur bristled indignantly. “We have seen no sign of Klingon warp signatures!”

“Nor has there been the increase in neutrino activity associated with cloaked starships,” agreed Sotek. He steepled his fingers. “And as our allies, logically they would not have needed to enter the system under cloak.

“Nevertheless, they beamed down right as we were finishing off the appetizers,” Seabrook said. “So either you two need to work with Gren on a class-one diagnostic of the entire sensor suite, or they were already in-system when we arrived. And I can’t say I’m a fan of either option.”

“So, uninvited Klingon dinner guests. I take it that went over about as well as a Ktarian spineback in a henhouse?” Doctor Rodgers asked wryly.

“That’s an understatement,” O’Clare replied. “Captain Brota - the leader of the Klingon detachment - was there.” Seabrook saw Rodgers wince at the name. “He was his usual charming self.”

“Which means what?” Rodgers pressed as she crossed her arms and levelled a stern gaze at the captain. But O’Clare only sat down and silently dabbed at a spot of _yamok_ sauce on the sleeve of her dress uniform.

Seabrook gritted his teeth. “Which means he tried to leap across the table and assault the captain.” He could feel O’Clare’s eyes boring into him, her anger coming off of her in almost tangible waves. _She can’t expect me to have kept that quiet. Can she?_

The entire command staff erupted in outrage and shock. “Are they trying to embarrass us? Destabilize the alliance?” Gren blustered, half coming to his feet.

“We can’t trust them!” El-Amin shouted shrilly.

O’Clare slammed on the table with both hands, finally silencing the group. Then she sat up and straightened her uniform jacket. “You’re right,” she said, and her voice was full of barely restrained frustration. “We can’t trust them any farther than I could throw the lot of them.” Her eyes shifted to Ruul. “But we can be smart in how we deal with them. Lieutenant Ruul, can you give us a quick tactical briefing of our patrol sector?”

The Caitian stood up and brought up a sector map on the wall display, showing the Setlik system relative to the overall border of the Cardassian DMZ. She gestured to a group of triangular red icons on the Cardassian side of the border. “We have reports of Dominion activity in these areas, although our own sensor data has yet to corroborate this intel. Our best bet would be to deploy the Klingons in a conical picket formation.” She tapped a few keys and three green Klingon crests appeared on the map, one just inside the border and the other two halfway between the border and the Setlik system. “One Bird-of-Prey will deploy and patrol a small area just inside the border, maintaining radio silence and under cloak but ready to fall back and report by subspace if they detect sufficient Dominion activity. The other two ships will backstop several light-years behind the lead picket, alternating which is under cloak to keep reports of their numbers vague.” She purred contentedly and her tail flicked from side to side with an eager energy. “The Jem’Hadar are too literal. By keeping them unsure of just how many Klingon ships are in the area, we will force them to be cautious long enough for us to finally secure more Starfleet reinforcements.”

“What’s the situation with our reinforcements?” El-Amin asked. “I can’t believe Command is leaving us out here alone.”

“We have a pair of ships assigned as immediate relief,” Ruul replied. “The USS _Echo_ and USS _Lafayette_ are keeping station at Ladora and standing by for if we need assistance.”

“Why all the way back at Ladora? That’s almost twenty light-years away!” Tykia Zonn chimed in. “What’s the point in having a relief force that can’t show up quickly enough to be of any help?”

“We are spread thin along this stretch of border, Tykia,” Ruul growled, and her tail began to lash back and forth. It sounded to Seabrook as if this was a familiar argument for the two of them. “The _Echo_ and _Lafayette_ are serving as relief for more than just our system - they also need to be able to respond in case the Cardassians strike at the Argus Array. Hence their being stationed at Ladora - it’s equidistant between Argus and Setlik.”

“I don’t like it,” Zonn muttered as he nervously drummed the fingers of one blue hand on the tabletop. “It’s leaving us more vulnerable than the last soufflé at a buffet table.”

“That’s enough, Mr. Zonn,” O’Clare snapped. “I know it isn’t ideal, but we’re going to have to make the best of it.” She stood again, her posture rigid. “Lieutenant Ruul, I want you to draft specific plans for the Klingons’ deployment. Include encryption protocols to be used for all subspace communications, both between their ships and for when they need to contact us. Get it to Commander Seabrook for approval in two hours.”

Seabrook blinked at that last bit. _Great, she’s passing the buck to me again. I thought we were through this._ He looked up at the captain but she refused to meet his gaze; he did manage to catch Rodgers’ eye and he gave her an imploring look, but the doctor only grimaced and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. _Oh good, at least Astrid noticed, too_.

O’Clare continued to bark orders. “Sotek, you and Gren double-check the sensors in case the Klingons did manage to slip past us. El-Amin, work with your team to supplement our existing tactical maneuvering subroutines with ones meant to counter Klingon battle strategies. Get moving, people. I don’t think we have much time.” She stormed out without another word, her back rigid and her jaw set, and most of the rest of the command staff followed suit in a rush, leaving Seabrook and Rodgers sitting at opposite ends of the table.

He finally took a sip of his coffee and found it had gone lukewarm; he knocked back half the mug anyway and then looked at the doctor, who was now leaning back in her chair and staring out the window, a look of concern on her face. “What,” he found himself asking her, “was that all about?”

“You tell me,” Rodgers responded without looking at him. “You said Brota tried to assault her? How?”

“We had all been having a wonderfully awkward conversation when he jumped across the table and tried to wring her neck. Although that might have been after she made some crack about comparing him to a _targ_ ,” he said.

“And?”

“And I may have been expecting something like that, so I didn’t let him get all the way across the table. And I may have held a phaser to his head.” He wasn’t sure if he saw the ghost of a smile dance across Rodgers’ face at that. “What happened between them, Astrid? I can accept a Klingon being capable of going from suave to murderous that rapidly, but the captain is being volatile. Even for her.”

“Brook, you know I can’t tell you about that.” Rodgers kept staring out the viewport, her face dispassionate but her voice full of regret.

“Why not? Why is it classified? What was so special about the _Trieste_ that everyone’s keeping silent? I think I’d get more answers if I called up Command and asked for a complete dossier on Section 31.” He sunk back into his chair and turned to gaze out at the stars and the night-shrouded surface of Setlik III.

Rodgers was quiet for a minute before replying. “I told you before, it’s a question of patient confidentiality. If it becomes an actual issue or legitimately interferes with the performance of her duties, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

“It isn’t a question of her ability to do her job,” he said softly. “I’m just worried about her. I thought she was finally opening up to me.”

“Ellie can be a hard person to love,” Astrid replied, “especially when she’s hell-bent on handling things her way. She’s been like that ever since we met at the Academy.” She smiled wistfully. “It can be pretty endearing, in the right context.”

“Being left unable to trust our allies while we’re sitting alone on the edge of a war zone isn’t the right time to be bull-headed.”

“Maybe not,” she conceded. He could hear her finally get up and walk up behind him. She gently placed a hand on his arm and her voice softened. “I’m worried about her too, Brook. I’ll try and talk to her once she’s had a chance to cool down. You’re right - we need level heads while we’re out here.” She grinned at him. “So it’s a good thing we’ve got you!”

He tried to smile back, but he could feel the muscles of his face rebel, and it wound up as more of a grimace. “Did I mention the fact that I put a phaser up against the skull of the leader of our little band of Klingon war buddies? And that I made vague intimations about how I was going to redecorate his brainpan? I’m so level-headed, my last name should be Kirk.”

Astrid patted his arm and her grin widened. “That would work, too. Caught in a no-win scenario against an implacable foe? Klingon allies that can’t be trusted? Maybe you made the right call, taking the cowboy diplomacy route.”

That did get him to smile. “I suppose I was speaking in a language he understood. I just hope it translated correctly.”

“Don’t look at me, I don’t speak a word of Klingon.” She patted his arm again and left.

He stood there for a few more minutes, staring out into space half in hopes of catching a glimpse of Brota’s elusive Bird-of-Prey and half just because every second he spent looking out the viewport was a second where he didn’t have to face just how badly the deck seemed to be stacked against them. Then with a sigh, he left the briefing room, making a quick stop at the replicator for a triple latte. _I wonder_ , he thought idly as he sipped carelessly at the still-scalding drink, _if anyone has figured out the syntheholic equivalent for caffeine. Because if my coffee habit this week has been any indication, my endocrine system is going to give out before we even see any action_.


	15. Chapter 15

O’Clare hefted the  _ bat’leth  _ in her hands, stared into Brota’s ugly face, and smiled. The Klingon captain stood proudly in full battle regalia, steel armor shining under the desert sun, his own  _ bat’leth  _ hanging loosely at his side. Around them in a circle stood another two dozen Klingon warriors, all mirror images of Brota, although some carried  _ mek’leth  _ and  _ d’k tahg  _ instead of the larger swords. All were clapping each other on the back and shouting encouragement to the one that stood across the circle from her.

She stepped into an  _ en garde  _ stance, raising the bladed weapon towards her foe, and growled at him. He stared down at her, his face twisted in a condescending grin, and he began to laugh. “ _ Qa’Hom! HuH DaHulth! _ ”

“ _ Ha’DIbaH! _ ” she retorted in a snarl. “ _ Qu'vatlh guy'cha v'aka! _ ” Brota blinked at the sheer rage in her oath, and in that moment she darted forward, her  _ bat’leth _ glinting first silver and then magenta as the blade took him in the throat, ripping open his arteries in a spray of viscous Klingon blood. He stood immobile, his face frozen in shock, and O’Clare delivered a roundhouse kick to the center of his chest. The corpse fell back into the dust, its head hanging off to one side, and more blood seeped from the gaping wound.

The surrounding circle of Brota doppelgangers fell quiet at the sight of this. One of them stepped in from O’Clare’s left, flourishing his  _ bat’leth _ and growling, but she stepped in under his guard and stabbed one end of her own blade through a gap in his armor and into his heart before he finished a second moulinet. With a forceful downward shove on her  _ bat’leth _ ’s grip, she disemboweled the Klingon, who collapsed in a heap at her feet. Two more Brotas stepped forward, and she felt a smile cross her blood-drenched face. This had finally started to feel like a challenge.

Half an hour later, O’Clare stood in the midst of an abattoir. Eviscerated and mangled Klingon corpses were sprawled across the rocky desert around her, and she was drenched from head to toe in dust and sweat and sticky, half-clotted Klingon blood. She was also fairly certain her left wrist was sprained from parrying a  _ mek’leth  _ blow that would have otherwise taken the top of her head off.

“Computer, arch,” she said quietly, and the holodeck’s door materialized just beyond the furthest pair of corpses. She began walking toward it, and then stopped. “And replicate me a towel.” A fluffy white bath towel shimmered into existence just inside the door, incongruously neat amongst the dirt and gore. She picked it up on her way out, wincing as even the towel’s relatively insignificant weight strained her injured wrist.

As she exited the holodeck, the holographic dust and viscera staining her workout jumpsuit vanished, and she mopped away the sweat that remained on her face as she walked towards the turbolift,  _ bat’leth  _ over her shoulder. The turbolift ride and walk back to her quarters was uneventful, but as she turned the last bend in the corridor she couldn’t help but glance around. But a quick look showed there was nowhere for Astrid lie in wait with another lecture on responsibility or healthy emotional self-care. Sighing in relief at having avoided another of the doctor’s intrusions, well-meaning or otherwise, she slipped inside, hung the  _ bat’leth _ on the wall, and headed for the sonic shower.

O’Clare’s combadge chirped just as she was pulling her undershirt over her head, and as she jumped in alarm at the noise she almost tripped over her own feet. “Rodgers to the captain,” Astrid’s voice came from the room’s comm system.

She managed to extricate herself from the shirt and hurled it across the room in frustration. “Go ahead, Astrid,” she said, trying hard to keep her tone neutral.

“I just wanted to check in on you, Ellie. Seabrook filled me in on what happened at the Administrator’s dinner party. He told me Brota tried to throttle you!”

She could hear the concern in the doctor’s voice and smiled despite herself. “Well, I did call him a sniveling  _ targ _ .”

“That’s my Ellie, diplomatic as always.”

O’Clare frowned and stepped into the shower stall. “Did you have anything important to say, or were you just calling to piss me off and ruin my shower?”

“I think checking in on the mental and physical well-being of my captain is pretty important,” Astrid replied haughtily. “Besides, I remember you ruining plenty of my showers back at the Academy. Now it’s my turn.”

“That was over ten years ago.” She activated the shower and barely restrained a sigh of pleasure at the feel of the sonic waves blasting the sweat from her skin and the tension from her muscles.

“All’s fair in love and war,” the doctor quipped.

“And which is this?” The comeback slipped from her lips without a conscious effort.

“That’s always been up to you, Little Bear.”

Astrid’s tone of voice was jovial, but O’Clare found those words more painful than any holographic  _ bat’leth  _ blow. She stood shivering in the shower stall, feeling more than just literally naked. “Is this really the best time to dig up old wounds, Astrid?”

“Ellie, lighten up!”

O’Clare stepped out of the sonic shower and slipped into a bathrobe hanging just outside the shower door. “I am light. This is me being light. If I weren’t being light, you’d know, because I’d be pointing out that it wasn’t  _ my  _ decision what happened to us when you graduated, and it wasn’t  _ my  _ idea to stop talking to you for years, and…” She managed to clench her jaw shut and stop talking through a Herculean force of will.

The comm channel was silent for a long minute. “Astrid?” she said hesitantly. “Astrid, I’m sorry, I -”

“No, I’m sorry.” The doctor’s voice was heavy. “You’re right, now is a terrible time to be talking about this, especially after what you just went through. I’m just worried about you.”

O’Clare sat in the chair in front of her bathroom mirror. “I appreciate that. Really. And I think -” Her words caught in her throat. “I think we could probably stand to talk about where we left things. Ten years is a long time. Maybe it would help to get on the same page.”

“It is my opinion as a medical professional,” Astrid said, her voice brimming with feigned professional dignity, “that old emotional wounds should be treated with the liberal application of Saurian brandy.”

O’Clare laughed. “Whatever happened to Cardassian Sunsets?”

“My palate grew up, thank you very much.”

“If you say so, Big Bear.” She paused to think. “How about dinner in an hour? The way things ended at the Administrator’s, we didn’t exactly get the chance to get past the appetizer course.”

“My quarters or yours?”

“Mine. I’ll replicate something. How does Italian sound?”

The doctor laughed, and while the comm channel took some of the music from it, the sound left O’Clare feeling like a happily anxious midshipman again. “Sounds like you haven’t forgotten that the fastest way to my heart is through a hearty plate of pasta.”

She smiled. “It’s hard to forget after watching you go through fettuccine like a Horta through solid rock. I’ll see you here in an hour?”

“Sounds great, Little Bear. I’ll be there with bells on. Rodgers out.”

The comm channel closed and O’Clare was left in silence. Her heart was racing again, but it felt completely different from how it had when she had been in the midst of fighting the horde of holographic Klingons. Then, her blood had sung the joy of battle as it flowed through her veins to her heart’s martial beat, but now it rang in her ears, bringing back memories of similar anxious rhythms, of exam scores and first kisses. She picked up a hairbrush and began to methodically run it through her hair, closing her eyes as she slowed her breathing to match the pace of her brush strokes. Her heart rate fell. She was in control. She was in control of this situation. She was in control of this ship.   
She wouldn’t let anyone - not Astrid and her well-intentioned teasing, not Seabrook and his bumbling concern, and especially not that bastard Brota - take it away from her. Not this time.


	16. Chapter 16

Doctor (and Lieutenant Commander, although in her mind that was only a formality) Astrid Rodgers stood alone in the turbolift, her immaculate blonde eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she watched the display of the PADD she held in one hand. The small device was replaying the results of the simulation she had restarted before leaving Sickbay an hour earlier; she had been attempting to find a way to virally agitate morphogenic enzymes without causing lasting damage, but so far each simulation had resulted in either no significant change in the hypothetical changeling’s cellular makeup or a sudden and utterly catastrophic unraveling of every cell’s RNA. Neither was an outcome she was particularly inclined to forward on to Starfleet Medical.

A slowly building dull ache in her left thigh made her realize that she had been absent-mindedly tapping it with the bottle of Saurian brandy she held in her other hand, possibly since she had stepped into the turbolift and directed it towards Deck 2. Towards Ellie’s quarters. With a startlingly difficult effort of will, Astrid stopped hitting herself with the bottle and sighed. She was nervous, and no amount of unconscious self-flagellation or distraction through medical jargon was going to make that any easier. For six months, their relationship had for the most part remained professional, with occasional forays into comforting camaraderie, but something about tonight felt very different.

She wondered if Lerann, her Deltan chief nurse, would remember to use the revised protein structure for the viral agent for the latest simulation, and started making a note on the PADD, cradling the bottle of brandy in the crook of one arm. The turbolift arrived at its destination and she strode out, her feet comfortable enough with the short distance between the lift door and Ellie’s quarters that she didn’t even bother to look up. She did have to awkwardly juggle the bottle and PADD for a moment in order to hit the door chime, and wound up just using an elbow so that she wouldn’t have to stop typing.

The door slid open and Astrid looked up from the PADD with a sheepish grin, stuffing it quickly into one of her lab coat’s voluminous pockets. Ellie stood there, dressed in a simple sweater and slacks, as she usually was when off-duty. The diminutive captain’s eyebrow was sharply arched in a quizzical expression, and Astrid found herself a little uncomfortable to be under such scrutiny so quickly. “Um, hi? What’s got you looking like someone put tube grubs in your smoothie?”

Ellie’s lips quirked in a small grin. “I invited you over for dinner, Astrid, not a night out dancing. Which is what you’re dressed for - other than the lab coat, I mean.”

“Well aside from occasional outings on the holodeck - which has its uses for more than bat’leth practice, you know - I don’t have many occasions to wear a cute outfit on this ship. I thought I’d seize the moment.” She spun as she stepped past her captain into the room so that her lab coat flared out, revealing a slim-fitting knee-length dress of relatively modest cut, with an alternating geometric pattern of blue and black bands that elegantly accentuated her petite figure.

“And the lab coat?” Ellie asked, the grin growing ever so slightly.

“Well, the dress doesn’t have pockets, and I needed to finish reviewing my notes from my last simulation.” She reached down and wiggled the PADD bulging from her pocket. “Anyway, here.” She thrust the bottle at Ellie with a wide smile.

Ellie glanced at the label as she took the bottle. “Saurian brandy? And a ‘52 no less? I’m impressed.”

“I remembered you liked the vintage. Back at the Academy, I mean.” Her burden discharged, Astrid shucked her lab coat and laid it over the back of one of the armchairs in the main room.

“You could say that. A case of this stuff is what got me through the first semester after you left.” She laughed, but something about the sound of it unsettled Astrid, who gave her a concerned look. “Anyway,” she continued, “I can’t say I was expecting you to have one of these just lying around.”

“I always keep a few homeopathic remedies on hand for especially recalcitrant patients.” Astrid winked. “So did you make dinner yet? I’m starving.”

“Astrid…”

“What? I know lounging around in sickbay all day doesn’t look like it takes all that much effort, but trust me, identifying the nucleotides in changeling morphogenic RNA is hungry work.” She began to stride purposefully over towards the dining area, but she couldn’t hear Ellie’s footsteps following her. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see that Ellie was fidgeting with the bottle in her hands, obviously disquieted. Her voice softened as she asked, “What’s wrong, Ellie?”

“What did you mean earlier, when you said things between us were up to me?”

Astrid walked back over, took the bottle of brandy back as she rested a hand on Ellie’s shoulder, and led her towards the dining area. Her voice was soft but stern. “We are  _ not _ starting tonight off by answering that question. For one thing, that’s a damned loaded conversation to have while sober. For another thing, you promised me pasta.”

The next ten minutes went by with barely a word between them as Astrid attempted to devour a pile of  _ penne alla vodka _ the size of her head. Ellie, in contrast, picked at her plate of carbonara with far less enthusiasm. 

“Astrid…” Ellie’s tone was one of barely restrained patience.

“Sssh,” she managed to get out around a mouthful of noodles, causing only the smallest dollop of sauce to dribble onto her chin. “Not done eating.”

The speed with which she cleaned her plate was rather astounding, although she would have been the first to admit that she wasn’t quite as practiced at putting food away as when she had won an eating competition back in her Academy days. Still, it was only a few minutes more before she set down her fork with a contented sigh and looked up at Ellie. “Alright, now that that’s out of the way, let’s open up that brandy!” She grabbed the bottle from the table, walked briskly over to the replicator to get a pair of snifters, and poured them each a generous three fingers. As she got back to the table, she handed Ellie a glass. “So, what shall we drink to?”

Ellie’s response was hesitant. “Friendship?”

Astrid smiled encouragingly and raised her glass. “That sounds like a good starting point to me. To friendship.” They both knocked their drinks back in a single gulp. Astrid smiled at the burn of the potent liquor as it went down smoothly, but Ellie started to cough. The doctor chuckled. “Did that go down the wrong pipe or something? Here, this’ll help.” She poured them another round.

“Oh god,” Ellie muttered. “What have I gotten myself into?”

“Hush,” Astrid said. “This is prescription brandy, after all. It’s healthy!”

Half a bottle later, the two of them were sprawled languidly over a pair of armchairs, and Astrid was laughing harder than she had since she’d stepped foot aboard the  _ Hornet _ . Ellie was laughing just as hard as she tried to tell a story from her first semester at Starfleet Academy.

“And so we’re standing there, and poor old Mirak is puking her guts out in the kitchen, and you said, ‘I always heard that Cygnians can’t hold their liquor, but hasn’t she only had just a beer?’”

Astrid clapped her hand over her mouth to try and hold in the laughter. “I had almost forgotten about that night! God, poor Mirak, she was sick for the whole weekend after that. I lost touch with her after we graduated, do you know where she’s posted now?”

Ellie drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair in thought for a moment. “Last I heard she was XO on the  _ Luxembourg _ , and they were on patrol out corewards, near Ferenginar.”

Astrid chuckled. “I hope her alcohol tolerance has improved if she’s gonna be anywhere near Ferengi while on shore leave. I don’t think I’ve ever met pushier bartenders anywhere in the quadrant.”

“I don’t know, whoever was making drinks at that party was a pretty generous pourer,” Ellie said.

“If I recall correctly, Captain, you were the bartender for the better part of two hours.”

“Oh yeah!” She laughed again, and Astrid couldn’t help but smile just at the sound of it. It had been far too long since she’d heard her friend laugh like that.

“But I’ll admit, you did look pretty cute, standing behind the bar trying to… how did you phrase it? ‘Sling bourbon like Dixon Hill?’” Astrid tried to say the last bit in an old-timey gangster accent, but she had to admit she mostly just sounded drunk.

There was a moment’s pause as Ellie fidgeted with her glass and then, obviously avoiding Astrid’s gaze, she asked quietly, “What did you mean when you said things were up to me?”

“Dammit, Little Bear...”

Ellie’s voice was cold and calm as a frozen stream in midwinter, but the glass in her hands began to shake more and more as she spoke. “Don’t you ‘Little Bear’ me! I trusted you, Astrid. I trusted you when you said you being two years ahead of me wouldn’t change things. I trusted you when you changed your mind and said we had to stay friends because you can’t maintain a relationship over subspace. And I believed you when you said you’d still stay in touch. But  _ you’re  _ the one who stopped writing.  _ You’re  _ the one who left  _ me _ . So how the hell was it up to me?” Her voice broke on the last sentence and while her face remained surprisingly placid, Astrid could see unshed tears glinting in the corners of her eyes.

Astrid was silent for a moment as she swirled the last of her brandy, watching the green liquid cling to the sides of the glass. When she spoke, she found herself to be bemused more than anything else. “I’m honestly surprised you’ve taken six months to bring this up.”

“What?”

“I figured this was going to come up as soon as we saw each other again.” She knocked back the last of the brandy and set the snifter down on Ellie’s wrought-crystal coffee table. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you waited. I think. Nothing gets rumors of nepotism going on a ship quicker than the just-transferred-on senior officers shacking up in a week or two.”

“Dammit, Astrid, this isn’t about sex,” Ellie growled. “And you know it never was.”

She sighed, running her fingers through her short hair. “Okay, you’re right. You’re right. Okay? Maybe I was the one who threw your heart out an airlock. I’m sorry. I figured maybe once you got your own posting either we’d find a way to get back in touch or you’d move on or something. I got so wrapped up in my own assignment that I didn’t stop to think how much it would really hurt you.”

Ellie drew her knees up and curled into a ball in her chair. “I never dreamed you could be that selfish.”

Astrid poured herself another generous measure of brandy. “Trade secret about doctors; we’re all at least a little selfish. It’s a professional requirement. You don’t get a nomination for the Carrington Award without at least a little ambition.”

“You got a Carrington nomination?” Ellie blinked in a surprised sort of way that reminded Astrid of a tiny drunken blonde owl.

“Ha!” Astrid took a gulp. “Ask me again in sixty years. But still. I mean…” She finished the glass and grimaced. “What  _ did  _ bring this all up all of a sudden?”

“I guess…” Ellie screwed up her face in thought, her eyebrows furrowing at a drastic angle. Her words came out slowly and stumbling. “We’ve been talking a lot, but it’s always been in the context of Fleet business, or my recovery from the loss of the  _ Trieste _ . And please don’t think I haven’t appreciated how supportive you’ve been. Astrid, you’ve helped. You’ve been a friend in a time where I needed one most. But I guess this whole time I’ve been a little resentful. And it’s been chafing. And then seeing Brota earlier just… set it all off.”

“I’m sorry, Little Bear.” Astrid could barely get the words out. She saw Ellie blush at the name even as she winced at hearing it. “I’m sorry.” This time her voice was stronger, and she managed to look into the younger woman’s hazel eyes. “You deserved better than me just dropping off the grid like that. I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch. I’m sorry I let my career drive such a wedge between us. If I’d had my act together we could have at least stayed friends, right?”

Ellie set down her glass, got to her feet unsteadily, and walked over to Astrid. She leaned down and gently kissed the doctor on the forehead. “We’re still friends, Astrid. I’m fucking furious at you and I have been for years, but I don’t care about you any less for it.”

Astrid put her hand on Ellie’s. “The feeling is mutual.”

“You’re furious at me?”

“At myself.”

“Oh. That makes more sense.” Ellie swayed on her feet a little.

“You’re drunk, Captain.”

“...Yes!”

“You should probably sit down.”

“...Yes.” With no warning, Ellie plopped down into Astrid’s lap. The older woman raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get any ideas, Doctor. You’re comfortable. And conveniently located. And someone just adjusted the artificial gravity on this deck.”

“Of course, Captain.” Astrid tried to respond with as much faux gravitas as she could muster. Ellie relaxed against Astrid’s chest and the two instinctively adjusted how they sat, the smaller woman almost curling up in her lap. Their eyes met again, and Astrid felt a bittersweet pang of nostalgia as so many happy memories bubbled to the top of her brandy-soaked mind. “Ellie, I…”

Ellie tenderly put a finger against Astrid’s lips. “Shush. That’s an order. You’re drunk too, even if you do handle your booze like a Vulcan.” She snuggled closer. “I’m just going to sit here for a minute. Then we can keep talking.”

Within a minute, she had begun to snore lightly. Astrid smiled sadly, then leaned her head down to kiss her captain’s forehead. They sat like that for a while, Astrid’s mind wandering through a maze of bittersweet memories. After some time she could feel the lightheadedness of the brandy wear off, and with an effort she managed to coax Ellie to her feet and lead her over to the bedroom. She got the captain onto the bed with minimal complaint, fluffed her pillow, and bent down to kiss her forehead again.

“I forgive you, Big Bear,” Ellie whispered as Astrid leaned in. Her voice was slurred and quiet with exhaustion and drink, but still rang with equal measures of affection and fear. “Just please don’t hurt me like that again. Don’t disappear like that. I can’t take losing you again.”

Astrid froze and felt butterflies in her stomach and ice around her heart at the same time. “I promise, Little Bear,” she finally said, tenderly brushing Ellie’s bangs away so she could kiss the recumbent woman’s forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ellie said sleepily.

Astrid wiped a tear from her eye as she walked back toward the door. She let herself out.


	17. Chapter 17

The voice of the _Hornet_ ’s computer, which was set to the usual Starfleet feminine default, seemed dejected as it intoned, “Simulation complete. End status: objective failed.”

Lieutenant Ruul threw her PADD through the holographically projected starfield in front of her and began to pace the length of the room. She felt her tail lashing and her hackles rising, but she didn’t care. She and Lieutenant Commander Sotek had been in the holodeck for three hours now, had run this tactical simulation six times, and every time it had ended in failure - more specifically, it had ended in the catastrophic destruction of the _Hornet_ , along with any Starfleet vessels sent to render aid.

“Perhaps,” Sotek’s gravelly voice intoned thoughtfully from behind her, “we must change our approach.”

Ruul snarled at the Vulcan’s condescension. _Three hours of his know-it-all attitude and disregard of her tactical suggestions and his awful leaf-eating stench is more than anyone should have to stomach_ , she thought. _To the depths of the sea with decorum!_

“I have suggested changing our approach, Sotek,” she said, more calmly than she had thought possible, and she turned back to face him, her tail rigid. She could barely even hear the growl in her voice. “The past three simulations have all shown that without adequate sensor coverage along Sector 5031, we are vulnerable to a strike from the Cardassian fighter squadrons stationed at Kelrabi. We need reinforce that section of the border somehow.”

Sotek’s smell became more acrid in Ruul’s sensitive Caitian nostrils. _He is becoming irritated. And here I thought Vulcans were more unfeeling than a dead_ priyap. “And as I mentioned the last two times you brought that point up, Lieutenant,” he said, placing the barest emphasis on her rank in a subtle rebuke, “the Darimar Nebula is in that sector, and as a class-nine nebula, the thoron radiation emitted creates a blind spot for our sensors.” He hit a key on his own PADD and the stars hanging before them shifted and grew until the silver and crimson mass of the Darimar Nebula hung in front of them.

Ruul growled again and found herself, just for the shortest moment, wishing Vulcans were civilized enough to actually fight over arguments such as these. She was tired of talk and logic; her blood was humming in her ears and she knew that the smell of her own frustration hung heavy in the air for anyone with the nose to notice it. Still, she forced herself to control her breathing, and took her time in retrieving her PADD. Turning back to the hologram, she made her own adjustments, and the map zoomed out, gaining a graphical overlay representing the border between Cardassian and Federation space in relation to the nebula. Three small green triangles repeated small loops along the border while a single blue diamond hung above the star labeled “Setlik.”

“What if,” Ruul asked, “we deployed a series of probes in and around the nebula? A networked trio of class five probes should provide sufficient coverage within the nebula itself, and an additional class eight probe could serve as a relay station to punch through the interference.”

Sotek shook his head. “Probes would be vulnerable to tampering, and still may not penetrate the radiation.” Then he cocked an eyebrow and tapped at his PADD, and one of the green triangles changed its course, adding in a loop past the nebula. “What if we added the nebula to the patrol route of one of the Klingon ships?”

It was Ruul’s turn to flatten her ears in a negative response. “They are already spread too thin as it is. We have too much space to cover with too few ships, and we need them close enough to be able to reach us if we are attacked. Besides, the nebula’s radiation will cause their cloaking device to leave a trail that even a blind Pakled could follow, never mind the Jem’Hadar. What about having an away team take a shuttle? They could serve as their own sensor and relay station.”

“A shuttle’s sensors would work no better than ours, even at close range, Lieutenant.” Sotek looked down at his PADD and began manipulating the map more, his face as impassive as ever.

Ruul could feel her claws twitch in their sheaths, but before she could give in to the impulse to use them in a demonstration of the strength of her argument, the holodeck doors opened behind her. Her whiskers twitched at the draft of air, and amid the usual smells of the corridor - _the combined odor of a hundred and fifty bodies of various species, the sharp ozone burn of the oxygen scrubbers, the delicate and tangy citrus notes of the cleaning solvents humans insist on using on the corridor carpeting_ \- there was the powerful and familiar smell of a single person entering. _Jasmine and sandalwood soaps on a strong, healthy human female. Sumayya_.

She turned around to see that it was, in fact, Lieutenant Sumayya El-Amin entering the holodeck, a stack of a half-dozen PADDs in her arms and a worried expression on her face. Several short curls of the young woman’s dark hair poked out from beneath her _hijab_ , and Ruul had to restrain the impulse to step forward and fix it. _You know she does not appreciate grooming displays in front of the other command staff. You must accept her human sense of propriety. At least, for now_. Ruul settled for a friendly nod along with letting her ears perk up to their full extension, while Sotek merely glanced up from his own PADD.

“Commander, Lieutenant,” El-Amin said in greeting as she stepped up to them. After a moment of awkwardly adjusting her burden, she managed to hand each of them a PADD. “I have the latest tactical maneuvering subroutines for you. Commander Seabrook said to get them to you as soon as possible so you could factor them into your simulations.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Sotek said, and began to look over the new data. Ruul did the same, and while the Vulcan’s attention was off of them she allowed her tail to gently curl around El-Amin’s leg. The young woman smiled at her, her dark skin flushing a little, and Ruul could smell the mix of sweat and musk that she had come to associate with the human reaction of embarrassed pleasure.

“Well done, Sumayya,” Ruul said, keeping her voice quiet and professional, but the eye contact they made was almost anything but. _It has been a long few days. Perhaps she will be amenable to a sparring session tonight_.

“Lieutenant El-Amin,” Sotek said without looking up, “perhaps your input will provide us with a fresh perspective.” The Darimar Nebula hanging in front of them was highlighted with a blue glow. “I assume you have studied the star charts of this area and have noticed that there is a class-nine nebula along the border within our area of operation. How would you recommend dealing with it, both as a navigational hazard and as a dead area for our long-range sensors?”

El-Amin gently extricated herself from Ruul’s tail and the young woman confidently stepped forward, eschewing using a PADD interface in favor of directly manipulating the hologram. She studied it closely, her deft fingers altering the display until she had seen it from every angle, and then looked over at Sotek. “I assume you’ve already rejected using probes as sensor relays?”

“Tactically unsound,” Ruul said begrudgingly. “Probes are too vulnerable once detected.”

“And the Klingons?”

Ruul gestured at the green icons on the map. “Their patrol areas are already larger than I would like. For one of them to give the nebula sufficient attention would leave other blind spots that the Dominion could exploit.”

Nodding, El-Amin finally resorted to using one of her PADDs to bring up a single blue icon. In contrast with the diamond that represented the _Hornet_ ’s presence in the Setlik system, this one was a small oval. She looked up at Ruul smiling, her brown eyes glimmering with pride at her own cleverness. “Then we use the _Schroeder_.”

“As I was saying before you entered, Lieutenant,” Sotek said placidly, “a shuttle’s sensors would not be up to the task of penetrating the nebula.”

“A regular shuttle, yes sir,” El-Amin said, tapping on the PADD as she spoke, and the small blue oval was superimposed with a diminutive version of a _Danube_ -class runabout. “But the _Schroeder_ has the capability to be upgraded with additional sensor equipment. And,” she she shot a quick grin over at Ruul, “it has far better tactical capabilities than a shuttlecraft. If the Dominion _do_ get the jump on her, she’ll be able to hold her own until she can either evade them or they can get reinforcements.” Another tap of the PADD sent the tiny runabout on a loop through the nebula, leaving a half-dozen glowing white dots in its wake. “If it can leave a mix of probes and mines in the nebula, it can further augment its sensor coverage while also ensuring the Dominion can’t just destroy or hijack our sensor network.” A final adjustment sent the nearest Klingon ship into a modified loop that had it move closer to the nebula without going into it. “And if the _Deb’choS_ can adjust its patrol route to rendezvous at regular intervals, we can ensure that no matter what, we have eyes on the nebula without having to sacrifice too much of our picket network.”

El-Amin’s smile had grown even larger as she had explained her plan, and Ruul could smell the pride rolling off her. Her whiskers twitched out of pride, and she nodded. “A good plan. But, for the sake of argument, won’t the Klingons be offended if we take part of the border picketing away from them? They might think we don’t trust them.”

“I don’t trust them,” the human replied, and Ruul couldn’t suppress a chuff of laughter at her frankness.

“Distrusting our allies is illogical, Lieutenant,” Sotek said sternly. “It erodes what little trust there is between us, and splits our attention away from the greater common threat of the Dominion.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I believe humans have an aphorism for this. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ if I remember correctly.”

Ruul could almost smell the condescension coming off the Vulcan, and her ears lowered ever so slightly. “What’s illogical is blindly trusting someone who was our enemy not even a year ago,” she snarled. “Klingons are opportunists by nature, Sotek. It would be _illogical_ to dangle a weakness in front of them. They’d be just as likely to exploit it as they would be to help us. Their idea of honor is a joke, and I would not be surprised if they sat idly by while the Dominion pounded itself bloody against us so that they could roll over whoever survived. It would be the sort of irony they would appreciate, considering it’s the tactic the Dominion tried on them. Maybe they’d even write a play about it.” She felt her tail lashing and was surprised at just how heated her words had gotten. _And here I thought I wasn’t the type to leap to the defense of my mate_.

“You almost sound like the captain, Ruul,” El-Amin said thoughtfully. “And that has me worried.”

Ruul stopped glaring at Sotek and glanced at the slender human, her ears perking up in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said slowly, “that paranoia and speculation are part and parcel of being a junior officer, or even on the senior staff. The _Hornet_ may only be my second posting, but I know that the farther down the chain of command you are, the less information you get, and it’s only normal for us to try and fill in the gaps with whatever information we have, even if it’s biased. But the captain doesn’t try to hide her distrust of the Klingons, and it seems to run pretty deep. If she’s that unwary around our supposed allies… well, what does she know that we don’t? And is it just me, or has she gotten a little erratic lately?”

“Be more specific, Lieutenant. Human emotionalism always seems erratic,” Sotek said, and Ruul felt her claws twitch again.

“I can’t put my finger on it, sir, but it seems like since we stopped at the starbase, the captain’s been redlining it.”

“Redlining?”

“Sorry sir, piloting jargon,” El-Amin said, flushing. Ruul tried very hard to notice how that reaction served to highlight Sumayya’s numerous freckles. “I mean that she’s pushing so hard she’s about to break.”

“Ah, I see. Pushing safety margins. An interesting metaphor, although I am not entirely sure it is apt.”

“The captain,” Ruul said, “has always been a bit of an unpredictable _harrat_.”

“Still,” Sotek continued like he hadn’t heard her, “this is Captain O’Clare’s first command, and she has only been here for just over six months. Until she has gotten used to the burdens of command, expecting some erratic behavior would be -”

“The logical thing, I know.” Her blush deepened further. “Sorry for interrupting, sir. I just don’t think that’s the whole picture.”

The old Vulcan raised an immaculate silver eyebrow. “It likely is not, Lieutenant. We do not have enough data about Captain O’Clare to predict every aspect of her behavior. We must simply adapt to her command style even as she learns to best utilize our strengths.”

Ruul chuffed again and her ears twitched in a silent, sardonic laugh. “You’re saying we just have to get used to her and hope she knows what she’s doing.”

“I believe that is the gist of what I said, yes.” For all her years in Starfleet, Ruul was still a little uncertain on the scents of what few emotional reactions Vulcans had, but she knew irritation when she smelled it, and it was coming off Sotek in waves now.

El-Amin frowned. “I’m just concerned about her. As we were getting to Starbase 47, she seemed to finally be relaxing and getting the hang of the center seat. But then with the speed of our redeployment, she tightened back up. And again, she relaxed as we went - she even joked with me a few times on the bridge - but after her encounter with the Klingon captain down on Setlik III, she looked…” She paused, seeming to have a hard time finding words.

“She looked like a _harrat_ having just gotten away from a _ruustak_. Wide eyes. Panting. Not sure whether to kill or to run.” Ruul found herself nodding as she spoke, the vivid mental image driving her tail to flick back and forth lazily.

“Were I the poetic sort,” Sotek mused, “I would say more that she seemed like a _norsehlat_ that managed to escape a _le-matya_ , but found herself wounded and poisoned.”

Ruul growled, long past the point of bothering to hide her own irritation, and used Sotek’s own condescension against him. “I believe that is the gist of what I said, yes.”

Again, Sotek carried on as if the Caitian hadn’t interrupted. “Suffice it to say that our captain does seem to have a significant amount of emotional baggage related to Klingons - whether Klingons as a whole or these specific ones we are working with, it does not matter. If she says we cannot trust them, we must act accordingly.”

“She could be wrong,” El-Amin said, although she didn’t seem to believe it.

“She could be,” Sotek agreed. “But she could be right. The logical thing would be to prepare for both eventualities.” He turned to leave, tucking both his PADDs under one arm, and then paused. “I have been in Starfleet for a very long time. I have served under captains of innumerable races and cultures. Our Captain O’Clare is young and inexperienced, yes. And she has seemed erratic of late. But she is still our captain, and it is our duty to follow her orders to the best of our ability. If you have further concerns, speak them, and I will bring them to Commander Seabrook’s attention. Otherwise, there is no logic to continuing this conversation.”

El-Amin looked Ruul in the eye for a moment, her face unreadable, and then shook her head. “Understood, sir.”

Sotek nodded once and walked out of the holodeck, leaving behind a moment of awkward silence that stretched into a minute before Ruul finally stepped close to El-Amin, gently resting her paws on the woman’s shoulders and letting her tail twine up and down her legs. Her voice was tender, almost a purr. “You’re upset, Sumayya.”

“I’m worried I offended him. Or that he thinks I’m trying to start a mutiny or something!”

Ruul chuffed, amused at the thought. “Sotek is a Vulcan, it takes more than that to offend him. He knows you’re just worried about the captain.” Her tail flicked up and brushed against El-Amin’s hand. “He’s right. We’ll do our duty, and let the higher-ups sort out the right and the wrong.”

El-Amin smiled, and Ruul was amazed at how beautiful she found the young woman’s slender features to be - even without any whiskers. They kissed, slowly and tenderly. Ruul had never entirely understood the human approach to physical affection, but she knew Sumayya found comfort in it, and that is what was important. While Caitian culture wasn’t one based in permanent monogamy, loyalty and support for a current mate was something every Caitian took seriously. And so she learned to like kissing, and now she found herself purring deeply as their faces pulled apart.

El-Amin stepped back, holding up her PADD. “I have to run these up to Commander Seabrook next. Do you want to come with and show him the next draft of the tactical sims?”

“No,” Ruul shook her head and flattened her ears. “I need to take your maneuvering protocols into account before I finish my projections. You go on ahead.”

Sumayya stroked Ruul’s cheek, and the larger Caitian nuzzled her hand. She had been surprised at first how quickly Sumayya took to understanding Caitian displays of affection, but she was glad for it now. Just as the human enjoyed the sensuality of a kiss, so Ruul was comforted and excited by the warmth of a bare hand against the sensitive skin and heat-sensing pits of her muzzle. They shared another tender glance, and then El-Amin left, and Ruul was alone among the sea of stars.

“Computer, reset Tactical Simulation Ruul Seven Beta, updating the _Hornet_ ’s behaviors with the new maneuvering protocols and deploying the Schroeder to the Darimar Nebula.” The sea of stars shifted slightly, and Ruul began to stalk along the holographic representation of the Cardassian border. “Begin simulation,” she growled, and she began to watch intently. _Now, we are outnumbered and outgunned. Our enemies might strike from any angle. How can we force the predator to become the prey?_ She lashed her tail as she watched the simulation progress, and after a moment she began to purr in anticipation.

_That, as humans say, might just be crazy enough to work._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To our loyal fans (all, like, five of you): I apologize for going almost a month and a half between chapters. Real life (i.e. depression, job-hunting, and so on) has been getting in the way. But I'm buckling down and will be trying to get on a semi-regular update schedule for the summer.
> 
> To our new readers: Thanks for jumping in with this chapter! Please leave comments and/or kudos. I need them to live. Or at least to motivate me to keep writing.

Brook sat at his desk in his office, surrounded by an extremely localized storm of paperwork, empty coffee cups, and cat hair. He had been amused when he first came aboard the _Hornet_ to find that, as first officer, he was actually assigned an office. Even though the _Galahad_ ’s XO, Terrence Whitaker, had been as punctilious a boot-licker as Brook had ever seen in Starfleet, the ship had been so small and so old that the thought of assigning an entire cabin just so the first officer could have a few hours of quiet to file reports was downright laughable. And yet within his first week aboard the _Hornet_ , back when Captain Hashta-Arja had sat in the center seat, Brook had found himself averaging half a duty shift a day in the tiny room, going over duty rosters and personnel reports and efficiency metrics. It could be mind-numbing.

He knocked back the dregs of his Terellian spice latte and thumped the mug down on the desk. Steve, who had taken up about a third of the available space by sprawling out to take a nap, made a sort of petulant snuffling noise and half-opened his eyes as if to say, “Damn it, human, I was sleeping.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Brook said, reaching over to scratch the cat’s tummy. Steve curled around his hand, nuzzling it once and letting out a contented meow before quickly falling back asleep. It took Brook a moment to extricate his hand from between the cat’s paws, as he knew from experience that pulling away too quickly would just wake Steve and cause him to hold on tighter, which usually involved claws. Slow and steady, he had learned, was the way to go when dealing with the big cat. Finally his hand was free, and the mountainous orange lump had begun to snore contentedly.

As he turned away from Steve, he ran a hand through his greying hair, and his eyes fell on the only decoration on his irritatingly cluttered desk - a framed holo of his parents. In the picture, a serious young man - his father, Kieren - sat in the command seat of an old-style freighter, dressed in an unornamented utility coverall. Kieren, unlike his son, was fair-haired but tan, slight of build and crooked of nose. Behind the chair stood a woman who would have been imposing, if it weren’t for the wide smile on her face. Brook had gotten most of his looks from his mother, Tesni. They were both broad of shoulder and dark of hair, although Brook had started going grey well before his mother ever had. They had sent him the picture on his fifth birthday; he had been staying with his father’s parents on Alpha Centauri, as it was his father’s opinion that he was too young to do anything on a freighter except get underfoot. _Which, considering how hyperactive I was as a five-year-old, was probably a good call_ . Brook glanced from the holo to the stack of PADDs next to his terminal, and back to the holo again. _It’s funny. I told Dad I didn’t want to get into the family business because shipping involved too much paperwork. But Dad eventually was able to afford to pay people to do the paperwork for him._ His heart ached at the thought of his parents, and he sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring out the viewport at the stars, which slowly shifted as the _Hornet_ continued its lazy orbit above Setlik III.

Before his sour mood could turn into outright brooding, the door chimed. “Come in,” he said, doing his best to sound like a cheerful and productive executive officer and hoping with every fiber of his being that this wouldn’t involve any words like “Klingons,” “intergalactic diplomatic incident,” or “more paperwork.”

The door quietly hissed open and he was pleased to see Lieutenant El-Amin enter, carrying her own stack of PADDs. “Lieutenant! What can I do for you?” He smiled genuinely, his maudlin thoughts of the moment before now forgotten. He genuinely liked the young flight controller; the contrast of her shy nature and her brilliant tactical mind reminded him of himself at that age.

“Sir,” she said, striding in and coming to stop before his desk. “I just wanted to run the new maneuvering subroutines by you.” She handed the top PADD off her stack to him.

He leaned forward to grab it, cocking an eyebrow. “You could’ve just sent them through the computer, Lieutenant, you didn’t have to make a special trip up to my office.”

“I know, Commander.”

“Not that I’m complaining, mind you! Your company is a welcome distraction from the monotony of duty rosters.” He waved at the sprawling pile of seventeen PADDs and one ginger cat that covered his desk. “Have a seat while I look this over. Please. If you stand at attention any longer I’ll start having flashbacks to Academy PT.”

She took the seat across from his desk and adjusted the folds of her _hijab_. After a moment, Brook heard Steve growl halfheartedly from his half of the desk, and he chuckled. “He says you smell like another cat,” he said, not looking up from the report.

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir…” He could almost hear the blush in her words.

“Relax, Sumayya.” He set the PADD down and looked up smiling to see that she was indeed blushing, her tawny brown cheeks turning a shade redder, which only served to further highlight the freckles that dusted most of her face.  “Crew morale is part of my job, and on a ship as small as ours it’s hard to not notice when two members of the senior staff spend a lot of time together and seem a fair amount happier for it.”

“Thank you, sir.” She glanced down at her hands, blushing even deeper, but the tone of her voice was grateful.

“Plus,” he laughed, “you’ve shown up for at least two duty shifts in the past month covered in cat hair.” Quickly, he put his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m kidding!”

She glanced back up at him, smiling sheepishly. A curl of her ebony hair slipped out from beneath the _hijab_ , falling across her forehead. “I guess I was expecting a lecture on how fraternization can distract you from your duty in a crisis situation.”

“Oh please,” Brook grinned. “That’s a load of _targ_ shit. Starfleet isn’t some hidebound military, Sumayya. We’re an organization of people, with a mission of fostering peace and understanding in the galaxy. Strong, positive relationships between crew members can be an asset.”

Sumayya cocked an eyebrow, causing the stray lock of hair to bounce a little. “But we’re at war.”

“Sure we are. But we’re still Starfleet. You and Ruul both know your duty. It isn’t my place to comment on your personal life - although if it were I’d say nothing but good things, because I happen to think the two of you are good for each other. I’m your superior officer, not some Jellico.”

“Who, sir?”

Brook grimaced. “An especially regulation-bound, letter-of-the-law jackass. He managed to get promoted to Admiral a few years ago, but I met him back in ‘67 when he was still captain of the _Cairo_ . He got things done, but he chafed the asses of everyone underneath him in order to do it.” He had spent all of four hours in Jellico’s company while the man had been aboard the _Galahad_ for a tactical briefing after the end of the skirmish with the Cardassians; three of those four hours had mostly involved Brook thinking extremely uncharitable thoughts about Jellico as the captain had droned on and on about the diplomatic importance of maintaining the DMZ border. Which, come to think of it, was a little ironic now.

El-Amin smiled again, this time more confidently, and the blush faded from her cheeks. “I have to admit, sir, that does sound about the opposite of your command style.”

“Damn straight.” He grinned, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. Then he grabbed the PADD and waved it. “Let me finish giving this a glance-over and you can be on your way. I’m pretty sure you were supposed to be off duty half an hour ago, Lieutenant,” he said mock-seriously, and then resumed reading.

After a minute, Brook saw out of the corner of his eye that Sumayya and Steve had gotten into a staring contest, and that the cat’s tail had begun to swish in irritation. He reached over and gently grabbed the tail, causing the cat to look back at him. “Stop harassing her, you overgrown tribble,” he muttered, and Steve took his tail back with a flick and then jumped off the desk, yowling and beginning to prowl around the small office in search of food.

After another minute, Brook finally set the PADD down. “Looks good! I like your approach to using RCS thrusters for rapid-response maneuvering as opposed to slower turns via impulse. You’d be surprised how many flight controllers forget how to maneuver in zero gravity once they get behind the controls of anything bigger than a runabout.”

She grinned at the praise, her amber eyes twinkling. “Thank you, sir.”

He returned her smile, sitting back upright and setting the PADD down. “Was there anything else?”

She furrowed her brow and said quickly, “Oh, yes. It’s just, well, I’m not sure how to say this, but…”

“Spit it out before I’m forced to make a ‘cat got your tongue’ joke.”

The attempt at humor was lost on her as she said, “Sir, I’m afraid Commander Sotek may think I’m trying to incite a mutiny.” Her eyes darted down to her lap again and the blush once more rose on her face.

Brook blinked a few times. He was, in a word, flabbergasted. “Out of everything you could have said, that wasn’t one I was expecting. Why, exactly, would he be thinking that?”

Now that the young lieutenant had begun talking, the words poured out of her in a rush. “Well sir, he and Ruul and I were going over the tactical sims, and we got to talking and I mentioned my concerns because of Captain O’Clare’s erratic behavior in the past few weeks, and he kind of seemed to take it personally. At least, as much as a Vulcan could. But I swear, I didn’t mean to be insubordinate or anything.” She finally looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “I’m just worried about the Captain, sir.”

He stood, noticing as he did so that she flinched ever so slightly at the sudden change in his posture. “Let me get you a cup of tea, Sumayya. You usually drink _karak_ , double-sweet, right?”

“Sir, that’s really not necessary - ”

He cut her off. “Sumayya, you look like you’re on the verge of a warp core breach. I promise I’m not going to charge you with mutiny. And I promise that I’ll handle Commander Sotek if he comes to me about this. But that damned old Vulcan’s eyebrows are worse than his bite, if you’ll forgive me mangling the metaphor. Let me get you a cup of tea and we can talk this through.”

She nodded hesitantly, her stray curl bobbing across her forehead, and he walked over to the replicator. “ _Karak chai_ , double-sweet, and a double flat white.” The drinks materialized and he brought her the small teacup and saucer.

Seemingly despite herself, she breathed in the rich, spicy aroma of the tea, and some of the tension seemed to go out of her. She glanced at his own cup. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink the same kind of coffee twice in a row.”

He took a sip, trying to not get milk foam in his mustache, but only mostly succeeding. “Coffee, as yet another Starfleet captain I’ve met once put it, is the finest organic suspension ever devised. It would be a shame to not do it justice by drinking as much of it and as many varieties as possible.” He frowned ever so slightly at the bittersweet memory.. “Although she’d probably say I’m dishonoring it by not just drinking it black.” Raising his drink to the viewport, he stared out at the stars for a moment. “That’ll be my next one, just for you, Captain.”

“Sir?”

Brook turned back to her. “A toast to the fallen. You heard about when _Voyager_ went missing a few years back?”

“Of course, it was the talk of the fleet.”

“Well, I had the privilege of meeting Captain Janeway almost ten years ago. I had the same pips back then that you do now, while she had just taken the center seat of the _Bonestell_ . Damned fine officer. Still can’t believe _Voyager_ went out like that.” He took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, I’m rambling, and you’re indulging me, which I appreciate. But you were going to tell me your concerns about our own captain.”

Sumayya shifted in her seat. The stray lock of hair dangled down in front of her eyes, and she slipped it back beneath her golden _hijab_. “Like I said, sir, she’s seemed… erratic. I know it can take time for a ship to settle when the command structure shifts, especially for a new captain, but even allowing for that, she’s been all over the map. Moody, even. She’ll barely talk for an entire bridge shift one day, and then the next she’s trying to make jokes during staff meetings. And then the next three days running she’ll hole up in her ready room. Never mind how manic she seemed after the incident at the Governor’s banquet.”

Brook grinned wryly. “Well, having a Klingon lunge across the dinner table to try and choke you would even leave a Vulcan a little _verklempt_.”

She sipped at her tea. “I know, sir. I’m just worried. We’re hanging out here with what feels like a big target painted on our backs, and if the captain doesn’t keep her head on straight, well…”

“I see what you’re getting at.” He took a moment, weighing his own concerns against how he knew first officers were supposed to act. He was supposed to support his captain. He was supposed to keep everyone in line, nip insubordination in the bud, and make sure the _Hornet_ was running… well, shipshape. But he knew that he could not, in good conscience, shine on anyone under his command. Not when he had the same worries they did. “And to be frank, I share some of your concerns. I’ve noticed the same things and more, trust me. But yes, Captain O’Clare has a lot on her shoulders right now. Hell, we all do.” He finished the last of his coffee and set the mug down amongst its fallen comrades on his desk. “We’re at war. We’re exposed. So the best thing to do is stick together and have each others’ backs.”

“And if it all goes to hell?” Her voice was timid.

 _Okay, here I can tell a white lie or three._ He smiled and spread his hands as if the answer were obvious.“We’re Starfleet. Gren will bounce a graviton beam off the deflector dish or some other miracle, the Dominion will scurry back through the wormhole, and once again the quadrant will be safe from tyranny and oppression.”

She frowned, cocking an eyebrow. “How exactly will a graviton beam manage to do all that?”

He laughed. “Damned if I know, I was a xenoculturalist, not an engineer.”

“If you say so, sir.” Her face remained serious but her tone finally had a joking tone to it.

“Please, just call me Brook when we’re talking like this. We’re crewmates first and foremost.”

“Alright… Brook. Thank you.”

“Anything else on your mind?”

“No, that about covers it.” She knocked back the last of her tea, setting the cup and saucer down. “I’m not sure I feel much better, but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one worried about this.”

“To be fair, I’m not a ship’s counselor. We still don’t even have one of those, despite my numerous complaints to Command about needing one.” He looked at the pile of empty mugs on his desk and began to gather up an armload, carrying them back to the replicator. As he began feeding them into the recycling slot, a thought struck him, and he turned back to her. “So there’s this old story about a man who’s out on a walk and just happens to fall in a hole. The walls are so steep that he can't get out on his own. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey doc, can you help me out?' The doctor writes him a prescription, throws it down in the hole, and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole! Please, can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole, and moves on. Then a friend of his walks by and he hollers, 'Hey, Joe, it's me! Can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole! The first man says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before, and I know the way out.'"

Sumayya smiled the first genuine, comfortable smile that he had seen on her face since she walked into his office. “That about sums it up.” She stood up to leave. “Thank you for listening, Brook. And for the tea.”

“Any time, Sumayya.”

She had almost made it to the door when she was intercepted by Steve, who was doing his best impression of the unholy spawn of a battering ram and a chainsaw, slamming into her legs while purring loudly enough to make the few remaining mugs on Brook’s desk rattle together.

“Looks like he’s decided he doesn’t mind sharing you with the good lieutenant after all.”

She leaned down to scratch Steve behind the ears, smiled at Brook again, and then left.

Brook put his feet back up on the desk and picked up another PADD loaded with duty rosters. _Nobody ever did anywhere near this much paperwork on the_ Galahad _. Almost makes me miss that old rustbucket_. He looked around his office and absent-mindedly started to pet Steve when the cat jumped up on his lap. _I hope that whatever dirty, stupid job they’ve wound up doing in this war, they’ve got their asses better under cover than we do._


	19. Interlude 3

It is his last day of leave. He has spent the past three days of it sitting in the dirtiest bar in the Tarola’n spaceport district, attempting to drink his own bodily volume in liquor. His ship will come for him soon so _this_ , he tells himself as he pounds back a shot of Aldebaran whiskey so cheap and so caustic it almost etched the glass it was served in, will be his last drink.

But as he sets the glass back down on the flimsy replicated plastic bartop, he finds himself thinking about the memorial service. About the half a hundred people in somber black formalwear. About the looks so many of them gave him, as he stood in his crisp blue-trimmed Starfleet dress uniform.

His parents were dead, he had barely survived the same conflict that had claimed their lives, and yet all his family and friends could do was see that uniform instead of the man inside it.

Seabrook isn’t sure he can blame them for that.

The bartender, a squat Centauran with a dour face and a bald spot large enough to land a shuttlecraft on, steps up to him, gesturing wordlessly at the empty shot glass. Seabrook almost tells the man to just give him the bottle. He almost says to just keep them coming until he can’t stay on his bar stool. But that is the moment his combadge chooses to beep.

When he tries to tap it, he is surprised at how heavy his hand feels, and it takes a few blind flails before he manages to get it to chirp an acknowledgement to the incoming signal. “Seabrook here.” Even more surprising is how clear his voice is. No drunken slur. No booze-soaked stammer. His words are crisp and sober. His tone, however, is as dead as…

As dead as the two people who should still be alive right now.

“Ensign,” the husky voice of one of the _Wyoming_ ’s transporter operators whose name he can’t remember says from his combadge, “We’ll be in transporter range in five minutes. Are you ready to come aboard?”

He sighs, and if anything his next word is more leaden than the ones before. “Yeah.”

“Acknowledged. See you in five, Ensign.” The channel closes.

The bartender finally speaks his first words since Seabrook stumbled in uncounted hours ago. “Pay up, Starfleet.”

Seabrook blinks. “Just put it on the Starfleet tab.”

Chuckling, the bartender points at a sign hanging behind the bar. It is an old piece of wood, hand-painted in one of the Centauran dialects that Seabrook, despite his father’s insistence, had never bothered to learn. So he shrugs.

“It says,” the bartender says as if he were explaining something to a particularly obstinate child or household pet, “no credit.” He leans across the bar and Seabrook becomes aware of the fact that while, as a result of his three day-bender, he smells like a run-down distillery, the bartender smells like the smouldering remains of a run-down distillery that had been set on fire by the owners in an attempt to claim the insurance money. “Now I know you pretty boys in your pretty ships don’t have to worry about money like the rest of us, but you drink in my bar, you pay for it. In this case, you pay me seventeen strips of latinum.”

“Look, friend,” Seabrook says as placatingly as he can, “I’ll pay you, I’m good for it. I just have to go back to my ship to get it, first.” He gestures at the snug fit of his one-piece uniform. “I mean, I don’t exactly have the pockets in this to fit that much latinum.”

The bartender’s brows furrow sharply, and Seabrook feels a weight on his shoulder. A glance down shows it to be a very large hand. His eyes slowly climb up from the very large hand along a very large arm to the skull-like face of a very, very large Nausicaan.

The Nausicaan bouncer growls as Seabrook makes eye contact with him. Seabrook whimpers involuntarily from a combination of abject terror and spontaneous, adrenaline-fueled sobriety.

“Now, _friend_ ,” the bartender says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you’ve got two options. First, you can pay me, and Kajigar here will calmly escort you out of my bar and you can go back up to your shiny ship and do whatever pompous crap you Starfleet types waste your time with.” He reaches down under the bar and pulls out a meter-long metallic rod, setting it down almost tenderly. “Second, you don’t pay me, and Kajigar and I rearrange a few of your major nerve clusters before throwing you out the back door so hard your friends will have to scrape you off the wall before they can beam you up.” He touches a control at the base of the rod and the end begins to spark and crackle ominously.

Seabrook gulps. “Look, let me give you something as… as collateral!” He curses his utter lack of pockets. His kit bag is back at his hotel, waiting to be beamed up separately. He has nothing on him but his combadge and his uniform.

Slowly, he reaches one hand up to his collar and removes the rank pip attached there, holding it out in a shaking hand to the bartender, who looks at it disdainfully. “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

“It’s all I’ve got. Hang on to it until I can come back and pay you.”

The bartender sneers and the Nausicaan laughs. “This is worthless.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

Frowning, the bartender takes the pip from Seabrook’s proffered hand and studies it for a moment, then shakes his head. “You stupid Starfleet kids just don’t understand what it’s like for a real businessman. Not all of us have fancy ships and fancy replicators. Some of us have to make a living.”

“They’re gold! That’s gotta be worth something.”

Now the bartender laughs, and it somehow sounds uglier than the Nausicaan looks, which is quite the accomplishment. “Kid, gold ain’t the valuable part of gold-pressed latinum.” He drops the pip to the floor and nods at the bouncer. “Kajigar, give him a demonstration as to the economic shock resulting from the… what did they call it on the news vids the other night…” He scrunches his eyes up for a moment and then opens them, holding up a finger and smiling like he has just remembered the meaning of life. “Ah, right! The economic shock resulting from the commodification of heavy metals.” His voice rings with pride as he rattles off the string of syllables.

Seabrook spends the next two seconds, between being flung from the Nausicaan’s grip and impacting against the far wall of the bar, having one of those awkward moments of clarity that aren’t at all appropriate to the situation at hand. He finds himself pondering how the bartender’s choice of words implies a better grasp of economic theory than he had expected from such an otherwise thuggish man. Seabrook even gets as far as feeling a little guilty for having made such an unconscious judgement of someone before he slams against the wall and the breath is knocked out of him, and he falls to the floor in a tangle of loose limbs and possibly cracked ribs.

His head swims and spins, and the cold floor of the bar feels refreshing against his face and now the adrenaline is wearing away and he thinks that maybe he’ll just lie there until he feels like moving again. But then there’s a crushing pressure against the back of his neck and his stomach lurches as he’s hauled into the air to stare down into the beady eyes of the Nausicaan. Then the bartender steps into Seabrook’s view as well, and in his disoriented state Seabrook can’t help but laugh at just how massive the man’s bald spot is.

The bartender shakes his head and says, “Kajigar, break his limbs and leave him out back. The Federation can clean him up, I’ve got a bar to run.” This stops Seabrook’s laughter, but also incites a chuckle from the Nausicaan that sounds like tectonic plates shifting.

“Look, I didn’t -”

But Seabrook doesn’t get to finish saying what he did or didn’t do, because before he can finish the sentence he feels the sudden pressure that comes from the establishment of an annular confinement beam, and then he is made of tingling and shimmering light as the transporter locks on and yanks him, molecule by molecule, out of the bar. His last sight before he dematerializes is the flashes of rage crossing the faces of the bartender and the Nausicaan.

Then he is standing on the transporter platform of the _Wyoming_ \- or at least, he stands there for all of half a second before he unceremoniously falls onto his ass on the transporter platform of the _Wyoming_ , collapsing into a heap. The transporter room in front of him wavers, and for a moment it looks like there are two or even three people behind the control console ahead of him. Somehow they crystallize into one person - the transporter operator he had spoken to earlier, a young Trill woman whose name he still can’t remember - who rushes forward, her round, dark face scrunched up in concern.

He finally, blissfully, slips into unconsciousness, his face resting against the hull plating of the step up to the transporter pad. As the blackness takes him, he notices that it is nowhere near as comfortable as the barroom floor.

 

The first thing Seabrook notices when he regains consciousness is the smell - a caustic blend of disinfectants and ionized radiation. He is in sickbay, lying on a biobed, his chest tingling with the telltale signs of the recent application of a bone regenerator. Breathing is harder than it should be, but there is no pain. He opens his eyes to look around and immediately regrets it as he sees that standing over him is the imposing, two-meter-plus form of Captain Akaar, his stony face even more dour than usual, his uniform pristine.

“Care to explain what happened, Ensign?” The captain’s tone is quiet. Seabrook has heard Akaar be quiet before. He has always found it unsettling to hear such measured intensity come from so large a man.

Seabrook tries to smile. “A local merchant was giving me an object lesson in some of the more subtle socio-economic ramifications of Federation trade policies, sir.”

The Capellan captain cocks an eyebrow at this. “And this economic dissertation cracked four of your ribs?”

“It was a hands-on sort of demonstration.” Seabrook tries to sit up, but that’s when the pain comes flooding back in, and he collapses back to the bed, grimacing.

Akaar gently rests a hand on Seabrook’s shoulder. “Rest, Ensign. The doctor said you’ll need another regeneration treatment for those ribs before he can release you for duty.”

“Sir,” Seabrook says before his brain can contribute to this choice of action, “I want to resign my commission.”

Seabrook has seen Leonard James Akaar face down three Tzenkethi marauders as they lept out of an asteroid field to ambush the _Wyoming_. He has seen Akaar single-handedly lay low a pair of Gorn that charged an away team on a survey mission. He has never seen Akaar look so surprised.

“Doctor Zh’feras didn’t say you had suffered a head injury, Llewelyn. What’s this about?”

“Let’s just say the past few days on Centaurus have been a little eye-opening,” Seabrook says dryly.

“You’re going to have to give me a better explanation than that.” Akaar leans against the bed next to Seabrook’s, crossing his arms and fixing the younger man with the kind of stare that can collapse stars into black holes.

Seabrook thinks for a minute. He remembers the funeral, his family’s reactions to his presence and his dress uniform. He remembers angry words spat into his face by people who just a few years before had been cheering with pride at his graduation from the Academy. Suddenly it’s all too much to bear, and the shame comes bubbling out, all the more toxic for having been buried under three days of cheap liquor and self-loathing, and his voice breaks as he says, “I can’t stand to wear this uniform one more damned day, sir. If I had stayed with my family, I would’ve been there. I could have helped save my parents. I could have kept them from even running into those Tzenkethi.” He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, and now he feels the tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

Akaar’s voice takes on a tender note that Seabrook has never heard before. “Ensign, you don’t know that. You could’ve just gotten yourself killed along with them.”

“So what?” Seabrook shouts, and now the tears flow freely from his eyes and the shame turns to a boiling rage. “What’s one more death, then? Another civilian casualty to add to the list, alongside everyone else who isn’t important enough to warrant Federation oversight.” His breathing comes faster and now his ribs have started to hurt, but he embraces the pain and lets it fuel his anger. “My father wasn’t a merchant because he was some money-grubber. He did it to help people. To help the kind of people who slip between the cracks that Starfleet can’t bother to even look at, let alone send supply missions to. The little colonies that go years without seeing ships of any kind. Backwater worlds that still use duotronics.”

“Your parents were good people, Seabrook.” Akaar rests his hand on Seabrook’s shoulder again. “Their deaths were a tragedy. But don’t add to that by throwing your career away.”

Seabrook shrugs the captain’s hand away, wincing as the motion shifts one of his ribs. He hears footsteps and looks over to see Sitaa Zh’feras, the ship’s CMO, walking out of her office, her Andorian antennae waggling agitatedly. “Captain Akaar,” she snaps, “you’re agitating my patient. Let the boy rest, you’ll have plenty of time to entertain his existential crisis later.”

Akaar frowns, looking between Seabrook and Zh’feras for a moment, and then steps away from the biobed. “We’ll talk about this after you’ve been discharged, Ensign.” With a nod at the doctor, he leaves the sickbay without further comment.

Seabrook grinds his teeth with frustration as he watches the captain leave. He wishes he had been able to better put words to his anger and shame. He doesn’t know how to explain the way he had felt when his grandfather had all but spat in his face at the memorial service. How the cousins he had grown up alongside had refused to even speak to him. How his aunt Amanda, his mother’s younger sister who had almost been like a sister to him as well, had taken one look at him and just started crying.

Zh’feras is standing by his biobed now, checking the readings and preparing a hypospray. “This will help you sleep through the pain. I’ll give you another regeneration treatment in a few hours. If it takes, you’ll be free to go in the morning.” Seabrook just nods in response.

There is a sharp pressure against his neck and the hiss of the hypospray, and then he slips back into a dreamless sleep.

 

The next afternoon, Seabrook is standing just inside the door to Akaar’s ready room, waiting for the captain to finish looking over his formal resignation. Seabrook stands at attention, trying not to let his anxiety show; his hands are clasped together behind his back so tightly they are beginning to go numb. After an intolerable length of time - maybe a minute or two - Akaar finally sets the PADD he is holding down and gives Seabrook a level look.

“You really still want to go through with this?”

“What other option do I have, sir? Should I just keep soldiering on here, hating everything the uniform I wear stands for?” Seabrook tries to keep his voice level, but he can’t help but snarl a little.

For the first time in days, Akaar’s voice loses the gentleness he has been using around Seabrook, and instead rings like steel at the forge. “You should use that damned stubborn head of yours to try and make things better. You can make a difference in Starfleet if you let yourself, Ensign. Just look at how you handled the situation with the Tzenkethi!”

Seabrook shakes his head. “That was a fluke, sir. I was in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”

“So find a way to be in the right place more often, then.”

“How exactly am I supposed to do that?”

“Well, I will admit, you probably won’t be able to do that on this ship.”

“I’m not sure I get your meaning, sir.”

Instead of replying immediately, Akaar draws a small black box from his top desk drawer and holds it out to Seabrook. “I mean that you’ll do it in a place where you’ll be needing these.”

Seabrook steps forward, takes the box from the captain’s hand, and opens it slowly. Inside, resting on grey velvet, are a pair of rank pips, one solid gold and one black with a gold rim. The pips of a junior grade lieutenant. Seabrook looks up at Akaar, confusion plain on his young face. “Sir?”

“I’m transferring you, Seabrook.” Akaar gets up from his desk and walks over to rest an arm around Seabrook’s shoulders, his motions gentle. “ And I’m recommending that you transfer divisions, as well. Your linguistic skills are useful, but you aren’t the kind of man who will be happy being stuck in the sciences for the rest of his life. There’s an opening for an operations officer on the _Galahad_. I’ve known Captain Rask for a few years now. He’s a good man.”

“Sir, I don’t know if this is the best idea.”

Akaar turns to look Seabrook in the eyes. “If it isn’t, then you can still resign your commission. I’ve told Rask about you. About your… crisis of faith. Neither he nor I will hold it against you if you don’t think it’s a good fit. All I’m asking is that you try it for a few months.”

Seabrook takes a deep breath. “Alright, sir. I’ll try.”

The big captain grins for the first time, and claps Seabrook on the arm. “Good man! We’ll rendezvous with the _Galahad_ in about a week. Spend the time until then going over the division transfer manuals. I’d suggest Operations for you, but I think you’ve got the temperament to make a hell of a captain, given time.”

For the first time in days, Seabrook finds himself smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! This last hiatus has admittedly been even longer than the last. Who knew that writing a chapter tinged with existential dread would be so hard to write when grappling with, well, loads of existential dread? Don't worry, the next chapter will come a lot quicker and will involve things blowing up, so it'll be nice and cathartic.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a Very Important Update! And not just because it's the first one in almost three months. No, today is also the one-year anniversary of your intrepid author and editor meeting in person aboard the real USS Hornet! Plus, the one-year anniversary of the fic starting was just a few days ago, so we figured that was a good enough reason for me to get off my ass and finally finish this chapter. So, to celebrate how crazy and tumultuous this past year has been, here's a chapter with lots of swearing and explosions!
> 
> Here's to another year - hopefully one that's a little more productive on my part!

The mood on the bridge of the _Hornet_ was tense as the ship dropped out of warp above the orbital plane of the Setlik system. Seabrook sat back in the center chair of the bridge, watching the warp-streaked stars on the viewscreen dwindle down into their normal pinprick size, with Setlik itself hanging dead center, only the size of a small coin at this distance. He had taken the conn an hour before when the captain had retired to her ready room; after two weeks of uneventful patrol missions, the command staff was beginning to worry that it was getting too quiet in their corner of space.

There was a chirp from the Operations console behind him, and Seabrook glanced over his shoulder to look at Tykia Zonn, whose face had just paled to an icy blue. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, we’ve just received an encrypted subspace packet from the _Schroeder_. Three Jem’Hadar fighters just tore through the nebula and passed them at maximum warp. They were unable to intercept. We can’t get a clear fix because of the nebula’s interference, but they’ve given us their likely approach vector. Estimate six hours at their present speed before they arrive in-system.”

“Damn,” Seabrook swore. “Guess we’re heading back out, people. Zonn, get Brota on the line; Ruul, sound red alert, and let’s have a tactical display with the last known positions of the Klingon ships.” He tapped his combadge as the klaxon began to howl. “Seabrook to O’Clare. We’ve got a situation.”

The door to the captain’s ready room was opening before he even finished the sentence, and O’Clare rushed onto the bridge, her uniform jacket unzipped but her hair as perfectly coiffed as ever. “What’s going on?”

Seabrook stood from the center chair and gestured to the main viewer, which Ruul had already switched over to a tactical map of the sector. O’Clare looked it over quickly and glanced over at Ruul. “Do we have an intercept vector?”

“Yes, Captain,” the Caitian responded. “ _Schroeder_ has lost visual contact with the targets in the nebula but they have forwarded their last known approach vector.” A blinking red arrow appeared on the tactical map, leading from the nebula on the DMZ border straight towards the Setlik system. “According to their last check-in reports, the _Deb’choS_ and _Korinar_ are out of range to intercept, but the _Rok_ will be able to assist us if we can delay the Jem’Hadar approach.” Three small white Klingon emblems appeared on the map; two were almost hanging off the far edges, and the third sat deeper within Cardassian space.

“We need to move immediately if we’re going to take them on,” O’Clare murmured, “but taking on three Dominion fighters alone makes for longer odds than I’d prefer.”

“We’ve received another update from the _Rok_ ,” Zonn called out. “They are en route to intercept, under cloak. Feeding their approach vector to tactical now.” The third Klingon emblem on the tactical map began to blink and slowly move towards the Jem’Hadar.

From the helm, Sumayya looked up. “I’ve calculated an optimal intercept course based on the _Rok_ ’s vector, Captain. At warp eight, we’ll make contact in one point five hours.”

O’Clare stood silently for a moment, arms crossed over her chest, one hand absently stroking the side of her jaw as she thought. “Make it warp nine, Lieutenant. The closer to the border we catch them, the sooner our reinforcements will arrive. Brota should be able to keep an eye on things and adjust his own course to compensate.”

“Mr. Zonn,” Seabrook cut in, “Broadcast a general request for assistance from any Starfleet ships in the area. If the rest of our Klingon friends can’t make the party, maybe the reinforcements we’re supposedly being sent will show up in a timely manner.”

“Aye, sir,” Zonn said, working at his console.

O’Clare cocked an eyebrow at Seabrook, and he grinned somewhat sheepishly back at her. “What? We may as well hedge our bets.”

She returned his smile. “I can’t argue with that, Commander. Lieutenant El-Amin?”

“Yes, Captain?”

A quirk of her lips turned the friendly smile into a vulpine grin. “Punch it. Maximum warp.”

* * *

Seabrook could feel the vibrations of the ship’s deck plating as the warp engines worked overtime. Academically, he was aware that a _Renaissance_ -class starship could handle continuous flight at warp nine-point-two for at least two hours before the stress on the dilithium matrix began to cause structural damage. Personally, however, he knew that such stresses affected different starships in different ways, and considering that the _Hornet_ ’s keel had been laid down sixty years ago, he was worried that the ship would fly apart around him. So, he decided to distract himself from his concerns about that form of horrible death by asking about another one. He leaned in close to O’Clare and pitched his voice low enough that the rest of the bridge crew, busy at their stations, wouldn’t hear. “So how, exactly, did you plan on making the Jem’Hadar drop out of warp to face us?”

She looked back at him, her eyes intense, her grin still fierce and predatory. “The old-fashioned way, of course. If we bloody their noses, they’ll stop to fight.”

“That’s awfully non-specific.”

She patted his hand, winked, and then looked up at the viewscreen. The tactical map had slowly grown as the distance between the _Hornet_ and her foes shrunk, and now it seemed as if they were almost on top of each other. “What’s our time to intercept, Lieutenant El-Amin?”

“Five minutes at current speed, captain.”

O’Clare glanced over her shoulder to the tactical station. “Lieutenant Ruul?”

The Caitian flicked her ears. “Yes, Captain?”

“Set eight photon torpedoes to proximity detonation and prepare to launch them out in a net ahead of us. Maximum dispersal pattern.” She turned back towards the viewscreen and settled more comfortably into her chair. “Lieutenant El-Amin, once the torpedoes have launched, all stop.”

Ruul’s console chirped. “Torpedoes ready, captain,” she purred.

“Fire.”

On the viewscreen, eight small golden dots lept from the front of the white delta shield that represented the _Hornet_ , spreading out before it even as it came to a stop. The Jem’Hadar fighters, represented as three red daggers hurtling towards them, drew inexorably closer.

“Captain, with our relative velocity at zero, time to intercept is now six minutes. But,” El-Amin said uneasily, “that’s assuming they don’t just fly around us.”

“They won’t, Sumayya. But just to be sure, Lieutenant Zonn, begin broadcasting a challenge to them on all frequencies. Phrase it however you like.” Her eyes glinted and she held up one finger, as if a particularly brilliant idea had come to her. “Say something crude about the Founders.”

The Bolian looked equal parts confused and flustered. “Captain?”

Instead of just looking over her shoulder, this time O’Clare rotated her chair so she could look at the ops officer and his station. “We want them making mistakes, Lieutenant. We’re outgunned here until our backup arrives, so we need every advantage we can get, and we need them to engage us instead of moving on past to hit Setlik. So we make them mad. Hopefully, so mad that they can’t shoot straight.”

Zonn frowned, but relented. “Aye, Captain.”

The seconds ticked by, and on the screen the Jem’Hadar ships drew closer still. Seabrook felt his left hand begin to hurt and looked down at it to see that he was gripping the armrest of his chair so hard his knuckles had gone white. He forced himself to let it go.

“No response to the hail, Captain,” Zonn reported.

“One minute to intercept,” El-Amin added.

Seabrook held his breath.

El-Amin turned to look at O’Clare. “Captain, they don’t seem to be moving to engage us. At this rate, they’ll just pass us by.”

“Wait for it,” O’Clare said calmly.

The icon of the lead Jem’Hadar ship brushed alongside one of the golden dots; there was a flash on the screen, and then both dots were gone.

Ruul let out a cackling growl of satisfaction. “The lead enemy ship has been destroyed. The other two are turning to engage.”

“They still have not acknowledged our hail,” Zonn said dejectedly.

“Might as well stop the transmission now, Tykia,” O’Clare said. “But let me know as soon as we have contact with either Brota’s ship or any Starfleet vessel. Lieutenant El-Amin, turn us to face them. Ruul, ready phasers.”

The officers acknowledged the orders. The tension on the bridge was becoming a palpable thing.

“Time to weapons range?” Seabrook asked, trying hard to hide the apprehension in his voice. For all his years in Starfleet, and for all the engagements he had been a part of, he had never enjoyed starship combat. Although he had received the basic training all Starfleet officers did, his skills had always lent themselves to more academic focuses. Even now, on the bridge of the starship of which he was second in command, he felt utterly superfluous.

“Thirty seconds,” Ruul purred.

“All ahead full!” O’Clare barked. “Phasers free as we pass.”

The inertial dampers lagged as the ship rapidly shifted from a standstill to a significant fraction of the speed of light, pushing the crew back into their seats as they leapt towards the enemy vessels. Then the Jem’Hadar opened fire, their ships’ powerful polaron beams slamming into the _Hornet_ ’s shields.

“Shields are down five percent,” Ruul growled. “We have depleted the lead ship’s shields by a significant margin, but the second ship remains undamaged.”

“Looks like those deflector upgrades worked,” Brook noted wryly. “I expected those polaron beams to pack more of a punch.”

“Let’s not tempt fate by giving them another shot,” O’Clare responded. “Bring us about, Sumayya, and pursue the damaged vessel.”  
  
“Aye,” the pilot said, her hands deftly flying across the controls of her console, focusing on the sensor readouts.

O’Clare continued issuing orders. “Lieutenant Ruul, focus forward fire on their engines if you can. Use the rear phaser arrays to keep the other ship from getting too close.”

Ruul purred an affirmative, too intent on her own console to bother answering in Federation Standard.

Seabrook knew that the simple two-dimensional representation he watched on the tactical map was but a gross simplification of the deadly dance that the _Hornet_ was a part of. For five minutes the three ships wove among each other, stabbing out with energy beams powerful enough to vaporize cities. Yet the match was, seemingly, an even one. The _Hornet_ was too large for one Jem’Hadar ship to disable, and well-armed enough to keep both enemy vessels from ganging up on it effectively; the smaller Jem’Hadar ships, on the other hand, were nimble enough to evade most of the _Hornet_ ’s phaser fire, no matter how well El-Amin lined up shots or how perfect Ruul’s aim was. It was a stalemate.

O’Clare frowned, and Seabrook was sure she was reaching the same conclusion. She stood up from her seat and began to pace in front of the viewscreen. Then she turned on her heel to look at El-Amin. “Sumayya, try to lead them back towards our minefield. Let’s see if we can get them to stumble across a surprise or two.”

The young woman smiled, her dark eyes glinting. “You’ve got it, Captain.”

The _Hornet_ ’s inertial dampers lagged again as she brought the ship about in a hairpin turn and sent it hurtling past the Jem’Hadar, narrowly missing another salvo of polaron blasts. The fighters easily came about to pursue, but over the next few moments they found their superior mobility less useful as Sumayya and Ruul were able to force them to move predictably around the mines. Soon, phaser fire was landing more consistently, and one of the Jem’Hadar fighters was on the verge of losing protection over its impulse engines.

Then, disaster struck.

The deck lurched as the _Hornet_ was struck more forcefully than it had been during the entire engagement. Seabrook was almost thrown from his chair; O’Clare, still pacing in front of the viewscreen, would have landed on her face had she not grabbed the back of El-Amin’s seat at the last moment. The lights on the bridge flickered for a moment, and the smell of escaping coolant filled Seabrook’s nose.

“Damage report!” O’Clare shouted, coming more steadily to her feet.

“Plasma torpedo cut through a seam in the shields!” Ruul responded, her tone almost a desperate howl. “Impact at the rear of the saucer section. Dorsal shields are down to thirty-seven percent!”

Zonn frantically sorted data at his console, adding the relevant details to the report. “Engineering says we have EPS taps overloading on decks three, nine, and ten. Coolant flow to the port impulse manifold is compromised.”

“Who the bloody hell hit us?” O’Clare was visibly angry now, her pale complexion turning ruddy, even as her accent flared up to match the blotches on her cheeks. In an odd moment of clarity, Seabrook noticed that her fall to the deck hadn’t mussed her hair in the least.

“The first Jem’Hadar ship was not destroyed by the mine; they have restored power to weapons,” Ruul said, her tail lashing about furiously.

“Ready quantum torpedoes. Sumayya, adjust your power flow to compensate for the decrease in impulse performance. Back us off to the furthest point of the minefield.”

Ruul growled a curse in her native language that apparently was too vile for the universal translator to bother with. “Captain, the armory reports that another EPS junction has ruptured, cutting off access to the quantum torpedoes. Damage control is underway, but they estimate at least two minutes before they can load.”

“Damn.” O’Clare slammed a fist down onto the helm console. “Zonn, do we have any word from Brota?”

“None yet -” Zonn began to say, and then his console chirped eagerly. “Wait, there’s an encrypted subspace packet coming in.” He stabbed at a few keys and then stared at the readout. “His ETA is ten minutes, and he suggests we try to disable one of the ships in hopes of getting a computer core download.”

“What a useful suggestion,” Seabrook muttered under his breath. “Does he have any idea of how exactly to accomplish that on our own?”

The ship rocked beneath them again, although this time everyone managed to keep their feet. “Shields to thirty-three percent,” Ruul said. “The enemy vessels are closing in tight formation.”

O’Clare muttered something obscene and Irish under her breath, running one hand back through her hair, which had finally begun to come out of its tight bun. “Ruul, detonate the mines, then fire everything at the nearest target.”

Seabrook knew he was imagining feeling the vibrations from the explosions; there was no air in space to carry the shockwave. Still, he braced himself, his eyes locked on the tactical display as the seven remaining golden dots all burst at once, wiping out one of the red enemy ship icons and leaving the other one blinking.

Ruul’s ears flicked forward and she purred as she spoke. “The damaged ship has now been completely destroyed, and the ship with weakened shields now has sustained damage to their hull. The third ship is still undamaged.”

O’Clare’s jaw tightened. “Set torpedoes for maximum yield and open fire on the damaged ship. Aim for their warp core.”

The Caitian paused, looking up. “Captain, that might breach their core containment.”

The captain did not look back this time. “I’m well aware of that, Lieutenant. But we’re running out of options. Put them on screen and open fire.”

There was a heartbeat’s pause before Ruul reluctantly said, “Aye.”

The viewscreen flickered to a view of the damaged Jem’Hadar fighter, which was leaking plasma from both nacelles. Four torpedoes lanced out, radiating hellish crimson light, but even as the crippled ship began to disintegrate under their punishing energy it managed to launch a salvo of its own, which slammed into the _Hornet_ with equal force.

“Shields collapsing!” Ruul called out.

“Port impulse manifold is offline. Starboard impulse manifold failing. We’ve lost power to the forward torpedo launchers.” Zonn’s voice had gone cold. He sounded more like he was reading a grocery list than detailing just how the _Hornet_ was literally beginning to fall apart.

“Do we have warp?” Seabrook asked.

“Maybe,” the Bolian replied. “The starboard nacelle is experiencing severe power fluctuations.”

“Sir, I don’t think we could hold a stable warp bubble for long,” Sumayya added. “At best it would collapse. At worst, it would only hold partially, and the ship would be ripped apart.”

“Captain,” Ruul said, “the enemy ship is holding station just outside of weapons range,"

O’Clare finally resumed her seat. “Get damage control teams working on the impulse engines and the EPS grid.”

“They’re hailing us,” Zonn said.

The captain made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh of frustration. “Whatever buys us time to keep ourselves from being left dead in the water. On screen.”

The viewscreen flickered and revealed the stoic, scaly face of a Jem’Hadar, his square jaw set in a self-satisfied sneer. His voice held the unwavering authority of someone assured in their victory. “I am First Teren’alash. You fight well, for Federation weaklings. But you have insulted the Founders this day, and that cannot be tolerated. Prepare to -”

His stone-like face flickered with what looked like surprise before the transmission cut off abruptly and was replaced with a view of the remaining Jem’Hadar ship, still undamaged. Ruul called out, “Captain, there is an incoming vessel - and it has a Federation warp signature!”

There was a flash of light, bright against the darkness of space, and a squat Federation starship dropped out of warp behind the Jem’Hadar vessel, immediately opening up with a ferocious volley of phaser fire and slicing one of the enemy ship’s nacelles clean off. The Jem’Hadar ship began to come about and bring its polaron emitters to bear, but the new combatant continued its assault, red-white energy bolts pummeling the Jem’Hadar’s hull until the ship imploded in a burst of flame.

Sumayya let out a joyous whoop and Ruul began to laugh in her coughing, catlike way. Even O’Clare grinned, although Seabrook saw that her hands had almost as much of a white-knuckled death grip on the sides of her chair as his did.

Zonn’s voice finally returned to its normal, melodiously smug tone. “Captain, we have an incoming hail from the USS _Galahad_.”

Seabrook felt like his ears literally perked up at the sound of that name, and he found himself laughing in surprise. “I thought I recognized that old junkheap!”

O’Clare sat back in her seat, adjusting her uniform jacket. “Put them through, Lieutenant.”

Now the viewscreen showed a stout man in a slightly older-style Starfleet uniform sitting in the center seat of an even older-style bridge. His close-cropped grey hair stood out vividly against his dark skin and black jumpsuit, and his teeth contrasted even more as his mouth widened in a shining grin. “This is Captain Rask of the _Galahad_ , last-minute rescues our specialty. How are you doing over there, _Hornet_?”

“A little worse for wear, but we’re holding together. I’m Captain Elizabeth O’Clare. Thank you for your assistance, Captain Rask.”

He chuckled. “We were in the neighborhood. It was the least we could do.”

Seabrook almost stumbled over himself in his eagerness to speak. “Sir, with all due respect, what the hell are you doing out here?”

The older captain’s face widened in a look of obviously feigned surprise. “Is that you, Brook? Well, hell, if I’d have known this was your ship, I would’ve taken my time and let you pull your own ass out of the fire.” The sternness of his words was belied by the twinkle in his eye, and by the end Rask was visibly trying - and failing - to hold back a grin.

Seabrook grinned too, amazed at how good it felt to hear the old man’s style of humor again. “Well, your generosity is appreciated, sir. And it’s good to see you.”

“Captain,” O’Clare cut back in, “would you care to join us for a quick meeting? The rest of our patrol squadron will be joining us soon, and I’d like to discuss the tactical situation with you before they arrive.”

Rask’s face settled back into a businesslike expression and he nodded. “I’ll beam over momentarily, along with any damage control teams I can spare. Looks like your starboard nacelle got a little too much TLC from those Jem’Hadar bastards.”

“You could say that,” Seabrook deadpanned.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes. _Galahad_ out.” The screen blinked and Rask’s face was replaced by the sight of the _Miranda_ -class starship hanging lazily in space among a shimmering, slowly-expanding cloud of vaporized Jem’Hadar.

“Brook,” O’Clare said, “would you care to meet the good captain in Transporter Room Two? I want to go over the damage reports with Lieutenant Zonn before he gets here. You two can catch up as you escort him to the observation lounge.”

Seabrook smiled. “Gladly, Captain.”


End file.
